


A Season at Bath

by Reinette_de_la_Saintonge



Series: From Wolford's Archives [5]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Historical RPF, Original Work, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: 18th Century, Adopted Children, Angry Kissing, Aunt-Niece Relationship, Awkward Dates, Bad Puns, Ballroom Dancing, Bath, Bath Houses, Bluestockings, Children, Coping, Crime Fighting, Crimes & Criminals, Crush at First Sight, Death in Childbirth, Denial of Feelings, Dresses, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Falling In Love, Fancy Headgear, Fantasizing, Foster Care, Georgian Period, Gorgeous Georgians, Grief/Mourning, Late Night Conversations, Light-Hearted, Nepotism, Parent-Child Relationship, Period Typical Attitudes, Puns & Word Play, Robbery, Single Parents, Slapping, Sort Of, Surprise Kissing, The Royal Navy, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wigs, Women's Rights, and bigwigs, in the bathtub, thief-catching
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2019-10-22 19:32:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17668727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reinette_de_la_Saintonge/pseuds/Reinette_de_la_Saintonge
Summary: Margaret and Samuel- probably a bit of an unlikely couple that really existed.December 1768/January 1769: When coming to Bath for socialising, the widowed rear-admiral Samuel Graves meets the formidable, clever Miss Margaret Spinckes.He does not intend to wed again and she opposes the institution of marriage altogether- but sometimes, perhaps not necessarily at first sight, differences attract another...This story can be read either as a prequel to my TURN: Washington's Spies inspired work "The Colonel's Portrait", as Samuel and Margaret play an important part there, or completely independent from it as a (hopefully) interesting tale about two historical Georgians with quite different views.





	1. Samuel

When the coach set into motion on a cool, overcast day late in the year, Samuel Graves’ heart felt lighter than it had in months. It was almost as if it had been enchained, and as if said chains had been ripped off by the horses’ steady pull at the drawbar.

As the carriage rattled on through the Blackdown Hills to leave the familiar scenery of Devonshire behind for the busy city of Bath, he studied the landscape through the window, watched it change and fly past in order to pass the time.

Going to Bath had, in the past two years, become a habit and a favourite past-time; shore-bound for the last seven years following his last command and widowed since two, there was not much else for a solitary country-gentleman to do save to bide time in hopes for a new command and be seen in Society, the first of which, hopefully, could be brought about by the latter through meeting the right people, preferably over a glass of sherry or port after an evening of passable entertainment.

Without anything else to busy himself with save the improvement of his mind through excessive reading, which grew ever-harder for him, especially when the print was small and the evening dark, taking care of the upkeep and maintenance of his estate and corresponding with friends and family, Bath with its many divertissements offered him a most welcome change of scenery.

He did not mind his own home or feel unwelcome in it, all alone; it was just quite empty, an emptiness he had, until two years ago, not been accustomed to for either he had been among his men on board a ship or had had a wife at home who would wait there for him, entertain and invite her friends.

Two years ago however, that had changed; Mrs Graves had one fine spring-day retired to bed with a surprising fit of ague and never risen from it again.

Over months, her slow decline proceeded with her able and active mind trapp’d in the crumbling ruins of a once full and lively frame. Her dark-blond hair that had shone golden in the sun had dulled to the colour of mud, her cheeks and eyes sunken in until he scarcely recognised the woman he had married anymore.

In a sense, she had taken the prospect of her imminent demise better than him and often called for the reverend to visit her so they could, on a good day, discuss spiritual matters or on a bad day, so he would read to her from the Good Book or offer her divine comfort in his own words.

Mrs Graves had been a woman of Sense and Piety and seen eye to eye with death, embraced him civilly like an old friend when he finally came in the early morning hours of a day in late November 1767 in the presence of the doctor, the reverend and her husband.

He had held her hand and knew she was dead from the moment it had grown soft in his- to him, it had been a physical illustration to the end of her suffering- she had let go of the body that had burdened her with an earthly martyrdom to be happy in the Lord.

A woman of Honiton would see to the maintenance of her grave while he was away and the house would be kept in order by the butler and remaining servants before he planned to return in a few weeks’ time. He had only taken his manservant with him as the well-furnished lodgings he always frequented when visiting Bath came with their own maids and a boy or two who would respond to any need or errand when called for.

Mercifully, Bath lay not too far away in neighbouring Somersetshire, a fact his bones were more than thankful for- he might have been accustomed to walking a ship’s planks in heavy weather, could sleep in a hammock below deck and rise fairly rested in the morning (at least young Mr Midshipman Graves had been able to more than three decades ago), but carriage rides always left him quite shaken up and quite frankly, although he would never have confessed it to anybody for fear of being laughed at –for how could a Rear-Admiral of the Blue, who was among the heroes of Quiberon Bay, feel sick after a spell in a horse-drawn carriage?

The landlady was greeted with the necessary civility before he made his way upstairs to the accustomed accommodation, where his first way was to the bedroom to lie himself down on the bed for a while in hopes the nausea would subside if he placated it in the comforting embrace of a freshly-made bed with a strong frame.

Groaning, he settled himself into a comfortable position after only having removed his shoes and having planted his wig on the wig-stand mounted on the dressing-table (he needed not have bothered, it wanted curling anyway) and closed his eyes against the cool, crisp bedlinen that felt like a heaven-sent boon.

One was not supposed to do that, of course, falling into bed fully clothed, but since he was his own master and had no one who could complain or point this peccadillo out to him, he could do as he pleased.

He awoke two hours later from the sound of heels clicking as a person walked across the room. It was evident the person had attempted not to wake him, but the sound had been loud enough to wake him.

He stirred and sat up, finding that indeed the nauseous feeling had waned and given way to the sensation of an empty belly wishing to be filled, preferably with savoury pastries and gravy.

“You wakened me, Stephens”, he yawned as he realised the intruder was not quite an intruder but his man Stephens who took his duties seriously and had attempted to take his wig with him to right it.

The servant apologised, obviously taken what his still sleep-clouded mind had intended to be no more than a mere observation as criticism.

“Leave that thing be and find me supper”, he ordered, “the usual place- and some port, if you can find it.”

Food was brought by a boy from the inn he preferred ordering after a wait that was prolonged by the misperception of time slowing down when one is hungry and eagerly living in the hopeful prospect of being served a delicious meal soon.

In the continued absence of Stephens, the boy working for the landlady, a widow some twenty years his senior and a very accurate woman who kept a scandal-free house (something he sometimes thought was impossible in this town), he made do with the sherry she had provided for him in wise forethought after having known him for a while know and took not only a sip of it in the small glasses one usually served this beverage in, but heartily poured the carafe into the wine glass the boy had, when setting the table for him, provided.

This was how life was supposed to taste, a plate of hot  (though not as good as what Cook, his most prized servant and her aides provided for him at home, but still very good) food and sherry.

Samuel Graves sighed contentedly and when his man returned with not only one, but several bottles of port, the evening was complete.

Contently, he went to bed that night only to awake in the morning with a slight headache and, upon seeing himself in the looking-glass, supposing his face looked very much like the clothes he had slept in the day before: wrinkly and unappealing, his cheeks ruddy still with the aftereffects of the overconsumption of  alcohol and a miserable mien.

By dunking his head into the washbowl, which he had requested to be filled not with warm, but with cold water, he sought to alleviate the throbbing sensation but all he gained from it was a yearning for the days of his youth, frolicking in the waters of Lough Neagh with his older brothers (provided they had been in a mood to take him with them), diving, his body fully submerged, to seek for treasures on its bottom in the relatively shallow waters close to the shore but never finding anything except for interestingly-shaped pebbles.

In his imagination, he was there again, perhaps not as the ten-year-old he had been when Thomas, James and John had decided to seize him, one taking his arms, the other two restraining his legs, and threwn him in for the first time. That was how he had learned to swim, out of necessity as his young body had considered the sudden change from dry land to water as a threat to his life and kicked and flailed against the lake-water before his older brothers had pulled him out again, laughing and patting him on the back in a jovial fashion.

Today, he was quite thankful he had been thrown in, not for the peril his brothers had put him through but for the fact that without this experience, he might never have felt the urge to learn how to swim, which he had done, observing the older boys from the shore and imitating their movements when he experimentally followed them into the water.

Yes, he was there again, sixteen and all alone in the cool, comforting water of the lough. Sadly, Bath could not offer the solitude of an Irish lake (nor any lake at all) and bathing in the King’s Bath, there were more people than water was to be found, and the water despite its undeniably healthy properties often looked more questionable than any harbour he had ever anchored in at the end of a busy day.

Almost four decades earlier, he would likely have taken the alcohol a lot easier, having often spent some of his pay with his fellow midshipmen in the taverns of Portsmouth when on shore.

Age had caught up with him; at fifty-five, his years had started to shew on his features and above all, on his head and in the morning-stubble that would very soon yield to Stephens’ razor, where the dark brown of his younger years was fading to grey; in the case of his head, thinning even, too, especially around the silver edges framing his face, which made him particularly thankful for the current fashion to favour wigs and Stephens’ skill at maintaining them.

The latter aided greatly in the restoration of his appearance and after shaving and putting on his small-clothes, he felt sufficiently eager to mix with society to take a walk and perhaps visit the Pump Room, not so much for the benefit of a drink of thermal water, but to see who was currently staying at Bath.

The town was bustling and full of life where the stink of cows kept in a backyard that would have enjoyed the green fields of his Devonshire estate mixed with the alluring smell of perfume on the neck of a lady passing by.

For a man who had spent his boyhood and youth in the relatively uneventful North of Ireland who was accustomed to the contradicting solitude of the high seas that was made up of the vast expanse of the blue ocean surrounding the ship and yet sharing the same vessel with a large crew whose faces (at least those he could see from his position on the quarterdeck) grew the more familiar the longer one lived there, and the small-town existence of a country gentleman with only a very small collection of huts by that appellation to go to frequently, Bath was always somewhat overwhelming on his first day back.

He had barely been out for ten minutes when the first acquaintance, a man called Lieutenant Braithwaite, greeted and immediately joined him; currently not on duty either and like he dress’d in a fashionable civilian suit, the man spoke of heroic deeds of old and when this topic was exerted, turned to some petty talk in town concerning a lady so-and-so and subsequently, the evening’s entertainment. A comedic play would be put on and at the Lower Assembly Hall, there would be a ball, neither possibility of which was much to what he was interested in, but decided for the ball, at which a man of his age was not per se expected to dance (one of the few advantages of advancing age), could directly retire to the adjoining card room without being frowned at from all directions. Perchance some useful gentleman might think the same, preferably of the Admiralty, and they might talk and he be assigned the command of a ship as the result of cultivating a friendship with aforementioned, at the moment still hypothetical gentleman; but Samuel Graves knew not to be of too good hopes, a quality he had acquired through active service. An unhealthy amount of optimism could prove as detrimental as a heart fill’d up to the brim with pessimism when in command of a warship. The art of warfare, both on land and on sea could be summed up as a calculation of Good Sense- a man wishing to command a ship or devise an infantry charge needed to be in possession of said quality to be successful in the carrying-out of his duties and to preserve the lives of the men under his command.

Very similar rules applied to Life in general, wherefore he was wary of being transported into high spirits by a phantasy-conversation that had not, and might never, take place.

They agreed to meet at the younger man’s abode to sup there in company, after which one planned on visiting the ball at a fashionably late hour.

Braithwaite was the consummate host; his guests, thanks to remote aristocratic connexions (an uncle or great-uncle maybe, though he had never asked and could not recall from the one time the man had mentioned it) were plenty and colourful.

For this occasion, he had donned his uniform, thinking the blue and gold suited him quite splendidly and besides, was it not murmured women favoured military gentlemen?

Although vanity was a vice many preached against from the pulpits of the land, their words were seldom heard and least of all places at Bath, where all year around, but even more so at the commencement of the new season, everyone paraded their accoutrements around, hoping to be noticed for the sheer splendour or particularly boldness of their attire.

Even he was not immune to it; when he had looked in the glass, he had thought of his own reflexion as quite handsome, at least in the sense that he was in possession of a face that was not the paragon of male beauty, but appealing through his lively eyes and amiable countenance nonetheless and that  himself.

He criticised himself heavily for his own thoughts, especially about the fact he thought the uniform would impress ladies.

Until now, he had not thought of ladies- well, he had, but not like _that_. Not as in wanting to remarry, or wishing to form a more or less illicit attachment to a member of the Sex. There had been previous visits to Bath alone with many occasions between them on which he had seen young (and less young) ladies in at times frivolous dress, some of them of Quality and others of the sort one, if at all, only keeps for one night.

He was past the period of mourning a husband should keep for his wife; nobody would think ill of him if he chose to marry again, but then, why and wherefore?

A life in service to his country had made of the provincial lad a man who knew his duty and had been duly rewarded for it; as the fourth son and the fourth of five children, he had known from his earliest days on that he would have to find a way in the world for himself, especially since the inheritance his father could offer his eldest brother was not particularly big and certainly insufficient in case his brother would have decided to support him.

The clergy or military service, that was the choice open to second, third and fourth sons and he could pride himself with not only having served his King well, he had conquered the disadvantage of a late birth and turned necessity into a virtue: soon after entering the navy, he had discovered he did not fall seasick, which was a great asset, and he could swim, which was consoling to a certain degree at least when some of the more senior men tried to shew him to his place through intimidation by telling him frightening tales of capsizing ships, terrible storms and whales bigger than anything he’d ever seen knocking first-rate ships of the line over.

He had endured it with feigned indifference and studied well- from the examination for lieutenant, which he had passed with great success and from then on, through the perils of Cartagena and Quiberon Bay he has ascended through the ranks to rear-admiral.

Not only was he now wearing a handsome uniform of the finest quality with golden thread to indicate his rank, he had met men, good men, too; John had been a brother-in-arms and trusted friend, who had cared for his men as he had for his family- only last year his old sailing master, a man called Cook, had set sails on his own, southward-bound to the boundaries of the known world- how sad John was not there to witness the event- or watching his only son grow for that matter, who was slowly becoming a young gentleman.

The younger John would turn seventeen soon- had it truly been seventeen years since he had been born? To him, it felt like he had only yesterday received a note from his old friend in Cotterstock announcing the birth of a healthy son and the request coming with it, namely, if he would be the little boy’s godfather? Naturally, he had agreed without hesitation and carried out these particular duties with the same exactness as his naval ones.

Time- o cruel time! Infant Graves (for little John had been given his godfather’s name also, which had made his heart swell with pride) did no longer fit in the crook of his arm, he was remarkably tall. Elizabeth Graves, who had been very happy for him, was dead, as were the elder John, his second son and so many more- he felt like a ship with all its masts broken and at the mercy of the currents, drifting through the sea of Time without the possibility of navigation.

Perhaps this was what age felt like, and he was only feeling it now, here in Bath, where his aging appearance was contrasted by the beauty of young ladies and gentlemen who, like spring-lambs pranced across the streets with enthusiasm, ready to see and to be seen.

But enough of those melancholy musings- he was not quite old and entirely grey yet (and what was grey about him was concealed beneath the wig anyway) and certainly entitled to a night of joyous celebration. Who knew whom Braithwaite could persuade to attend?

With some newfound spring in his step, he dismounted his coach when he arrived at Braithewaite’s, who had rented rooms in a part of town that was acceptable, but not entirely fashionable.

When he arrived, he was greeted kindly and shewn to his seat at the table; he had been quite early, and save for Braithwaite and two other gentlemen, one of them who had brought his spouse, they were still waiting for some other guests, who, as the following minutes revealed, were somewhat late.

At last, a group of ladies entered, accompanied by two gentlemen who did not seem to be the husbands of either; the five friends took their places and filled the table under great professions of being inconsolable on account of their tardiness, but Miss Peggy’s maid had misplaced a favourite necklace and taken her time finding it.

As it turned out, Miss Peggy was the woman seated to his left; a dame of middling age, not young, but not old either; her hair was of a warm brown and her face of a fair complexion, blemish-free with only the slightest hints of her years etched around her mouth and below her eyes.

She was a bit old to be a _Miss_ , he thought, but explained the moniker _Miss Peggy_ as being an affectionate appellation its bearer had been given long ago when young and that had eternally attached itself to her through friends who recalled her from these days.

However, not being part of this doubtlessly well-acquainted group, he felt somewhat at loss what to say as he even lacked a proper way of addressing either person save for Braithwaite for it seemed even the married couple and other solitary gentleman were friends with the illustrious quintet whereas he did not even know their names, save for that of Miss Peggy, whom he doubted would like a stranger call her so.

“Won’t you introduce the gentleman to us?”, a pretty fair-haired woman a bit younger than Miss Peggy said to Braithwaite.

The later did so, and Samuel felt uncomfortable under the gazes resting on his person, an uneasiness that made it impossible for his brain to recall all the names thrown at him in a matter of seconds.

“An admiral”, the married lady, whose name he had forgotten, smiled. Pray tell us of your adventures.”

Being bidden to do so, he gave them a thorough account of his involvement at Quiberon, commanding the Duke, but soon realised not all his new acquaintances listened as avidly as the lady who had asked him to; one of the two beaus who had come with the group of ladies, a horridly dressed man in a lavender ditto suit, busied himself thoroughly inspecting his fingernails and next to him, Miss Peggy toyed with her wine glass in a rather rude and unmannered way, making circulatory motions with the round base, balancing it while keeping the remainders of her second glass from spilling onto the table.

Seeing he was being the old bore he had known he was before coming to Bath and letting himself be carried away and infected by other people’s vanities, he drew to a close, omitting some details in favour of brevity.

“The courage of men”, Miss Peggy was the first to comment, “heroes all- but ask their women what they think of it.”

“They surely must be very proud of their men”, Samuel replied, knowing that his late wife had told him so before he had gone to sea every time.

Miss Peggy snorted.

“Proud? It is a necessary duty that needs be performed to preserve and to defend our country, but we should not be blinded by such sentiments as heroism when men from army-, navy-, and marine service do not return and thus drive their families into destitution.”

Since the topic appeared to have struck a wound beneath Miss Peggy’s strikingly turquoise gown, he decided to enquire gently, if she was a widow to a man who had died in service to his King.

“Good heavens, no, I have not married.” She almost looked offended at the mere concept of marriage.

“You see”, the one in the lilac suit with a long nose tried to explain with a roguish smirk on his face that indicated he was eager to see how he would react, “Miss Spinckes here has very radical opinions, Admiral Graves.”

Peggy Spinckes sat up even straighter than before and letting her eyes roam across the table, captured everyone as her listener.

“I do not perceive it radical that women, for their own betterment and so ultimately for the good of the nation, should be able to have the same opportunities to rise above their rank, to work and have a steady income as boys their age do. What path is there for a little girl from a modest home these days? Her brothers might enter the clergy, or choose to fight for their king, or be bold and make their fortune through risky business dealings and the like, but what of her? She can either marry, only to live in the same state of humble means as her mother before her and dependant on a husband who may or may not squander her little dowry, or at best, if her parents had some Sense and taught her well, become a governess. Don’t you think it is quite an injustice?”

“My dear Peggy”, Braithewaite tried to soothe the lady’s outspokenness, “I am sure- ah! Dessert!”

Braithwaite looked like a convict who had escaped the noose a second before he was supposed to hang when plates full of sweets and dainties were brought in.

Quickly, he risked a glance at Peggy Spinckes, whose face was cool and calm- her brown eyes however sparkled with the angry flames of a raging wildfire.

Gladly, she did not work on a ship- if she ever gave this regard to a barrel of powder in the powder room, she would blow up the entire ship in less time than it takes to count to three.

A new, less passionate discussion ensued at the other end of the table, laughter was exchanged and opinions voiced. For some reason, he did not quite like the fact Miss Spinckes sat quietly next to him, finding her somewhat intimidating when she was silent, sitting there like a formidable statue dressed in a tasteful dress with a stomacher of sea-green and various ornaments pinned to it.

“I am sure your views are quite, well, interesting, but you must not begrudge our host attempting to steer the conversation into more shallow waters”, he tried to reconcile Miss Spinckes with Braithwaite, but was cut off:

“Shallowness is the main reason for the moral- and political decline in this country. If we would all allow ourselves to be shallow, we would soon be conquered by France or Germany, or worse still, the Irish, or the country be run by those who do not wish to have a king and destroy our laws, order and the authority those of our Station have.”

“But don’t you think-“

“No, I do not. At least of you, I would have thought better- you are a man who knows the importance of hard work and service, or so I understood from your previous narration outlining your origins and Service to the King. Do not understand me wrongly- I love my friends, but at times, their need to be cheerful when there is no reason to be vexes me.”

“Are there no debating-circles for ladies in Bath? Learned salons where topics of female interest-“

He had only tried to be helpful, but Miss Spinckes made a face as if she had just discovered a particularly disgusting blow-fly in her claret and remained silent until dessert was finished, when she excused herself quietly to go home, for she suffered from an excruciating headache.

“I hope it was not I who caused the pain in your head”, he said in an attempt to add an exculpatory element to wishing her goodnight.

“To be quite frank, perhaps you did.”

“I would hate to be ever-responsible for- for having offended you, though in which way I know not”, he said. “Allow me to offer you a suitable recompense-“

“What could a man like you offer to me? You ought to better take care of the words you speak; they can be misread as something untoward all too easily. Goodnight, Admiral.”

For a moment, he thought he should reach out to her, grab one of her lace-heavy sleeves to make her stay and apologise again (though privately, he was somewhat annoyed because surely she must have realised he had only meant well), but then watched her leave the room, before Braithwaite demanded his attention by trusting a glass of sherry into his hand.

“Our formidable Peggy”, the other man said with a wry smile on his lips, “a brilliant card-player and bright as a fellow from Oxford with a tongue sharper than your sword. Now you know her.”

So he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, my thanks go to the wonderful Tav, who inspired me to write this work, which will only be a handful of chapters long. The chapters will alternate in POV between Samuel and Margaret, so next up is Margaret's take on the evening. 
> 
> I had to read a bit into the fascinating world of taking the waters and socialising in 18th century Bath, the most fashionable of spa towns, and I cannot wait to share my knowledge about 18th century bathing suits and co with you in the coming chapters. 
> 
> Bath was essentially known for the healing and health-boosting properties of its hot springs that are said to smell a bit like rotten egg. In the Pump Room, one would take one's daily glass of water and then either parade through town to show off one's new clothes, go to one of the baths, the biggest being the King's Bath where men and women would mix in the water and in the evening, there were private and public dances, theatre plays etc. Bath was the town to go to meet the high and mighty and to have some fun. 
> 
> Because of course there aren't any details on how they met, much of what happens here is my invention- I set their first meeting at the start of 1769 to coincide with the beginning of the new social season. 
> 
> Margaret's views are drawn from her letters later in life; she was in fact friends with Elizabeth Montagu, the lead Bluestocking at the time, who was also a distant relation.
> 
> The details of Samuel's naval service are accurate. 
> 
> I might return later to add more little explainers, but feel free to ask me if you have a question about something in particular. 
> 
> As always, I am always happy to receive your comments and critique!


	2. Margaret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two people who enjoy a good argument get one and afterwards bond over talk of their kids (that aren't really theirs) and get involved in a street robbery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You will have realised I like to add a little “period” touch to the story from my style, but every now and then, I like to throw in some period-appropriate spelling as well, as I find it adds an authentic feeling to the story and makes for a more immersive read. So if you stumble over a “shewed”, “surpriz’d”, “cloathes” etc., it’s either a) me trying to make my story read more like a document from the period or b), which is also very likely, I was just xlumsy typng. ;)

When Margaret awoke the next morning, she had not forgotten the previous night. She was still somewhat offended and glumly considered what she would do, and with whom, seeing as she wished to shew to her regular companions, who had been present at Braithwaite’s, that she was discontent and displeased with all of them to some degree.

Considering her options, she came to the conclusion that the last thing she would do would be remaining in her room in her nightgown to spend the remainder of the day sulking and thus called for her maid to dress her, so she might go to the Pump Room to see who else enjoyed the early morning hours.

They had come as far as fixing her stays and petticoats when another servant appeared in the door, bobbing as she faced her mistress, and announced:

“There is a gentleman here to see you, mistress.”

-Who could that be? Margaret had not invited any guests nor was she much in a frame of mind to entertain presently.

“And has he given you a name?”, she proceeded to ask. Perhaps the _gentleman_ would reveal himself to be a mere pedlar or some such and could be sent away immediately.

Contrary to her expectations (and hopes), the girl replied: “He introduced himself as Admiral Graves to me, mistress, and he was asking to see you-“

“Wherefore? Did he give a reason for his visit?”

“Yes, madam, he did- he says he is very rueful on account of something that happened the previous night, though what he did not wish to relay to me.”

The girl, as befitting her station, looked demurely to the tips of her shoes peeking from under the calico of her skirt, at least trying to feign indifference in the face of this most curious situation- a man, coming to call on her mistress when the latter was in dishabille was quite a novelty indeed.

“Let him in”, she answered and called for her maid to fetch her manteau-de-lit, which she draped over her stays, and tied it so it fell most advantageously. Fully dressed, she usually felt quite sure of herself as her apparel shewed her fashionable taste and in its exactness communicated to everyone who laid eyes on her that the woman inside was no jumps-wearing hussy but a person of impeccable manners and morality.

She had barely finished tying her gown to enwrap her figure, shot a last glance into the glass to ascertain herself of her appearance and seated herself on the daybed with her legs crossed and slippers matching her manteau peeking from under the hem of her petticoats when her caller was brought in. Her maid left, slipping through the door as it opened to let her visitor in. They would be totally alone, she realised as the door closed behind him and she directed her eyes towards him in order to study the supposed gentleman for the first time in the daylight.

Margaret would have liked to laugh- the man’s well-rounded cheeks turned rubicund upon seeing her.

Although she found seeing a grown man so flustered at the sight of a woman in dishabille, yet dressed enough not to imply suggestiveness in her attire, quite amusing, she was also impatient for him to shed himself of his evident false sensitivities and get to the point of his unannounced visit instead.

“Admiral Graves, what an unexpected _pleasure_. I certainly was not awaiting any callers this morning.”

She smiled benevolently up at him with a smile akin to that of a country lady distributing charity to the needy of her parish, very distant and coolly and with the knowledge she was in the present situation superior to him and he dependent on her goodwill, and so waited for his reply, how and if he would defend himself.

“Miss Spinckes, I am most profoundly sorry I have offended you the previous day and wish to make amends, for I would hate to think I have, though unwittingly, provoked or wronged you in some shape or form, though I must confess how I cannot fathom.”

“One could start with your patronising attitude”, she offered him a part of his conduct to consider she had not liked one bit, “one can think for one’s self and is not dependent on your doubtlessly well-meant attempts to interfere.”

He took that badly; with a glint in his eye she could only describe as unadulterated ire, he snapped:

“And you? Did you not see your teachings were not of interest to the general audience? You are hypocritical and quite vain to think everyone ought to listen to you whenever you wish it.”

His cheeks glewed even more than before, but this time with anger, not shame and his voice had transformed, too, revealing to her the passionate temper of his native extraction in his voice.

“Shame on you”, Margaret answered him, “to come in, without prior announcement, disrupting my morning only to attack me under the guise of an apology!”

Without having realised she had actually risen, she found herself standing in front of him, looking up at the tall man. The pot-bellied old fool dressed now less impeccably in a worn suit fit for a pauper’s funeral judging by both colour and condition returned her stare, his mouth contorting visibly. It was only all too clear he was not done; he perceived her rightful feeling of having been wronged as his and sought to claim it.

“You ought to feel ashamed, not I. I came to offer my apologies and you, you _self-centred, unkind, rabid vixen-_ “

The snarl in his voice, low and rumbling like a wolf ready to pounce on his prey was probably meant to be intimidating, but Margaret thought herself immune to such games. His tactic of angry intimidation would not work on her- if he wanted her as an enemy, so be it.

At least he possessed a, tho’ very tiny, remainder of decency- clearly, he had suppressed any less savoury epithets he might have liked to grace her with in favour of these still hurtful, yet comparatively less offensive ones.

However, Margaret had had enough, and being offended in this manner caused her temper to heat up: almost reflexively, she raised her hand and slapped him across the cheek, leaving an angry pink handprint to blossom.

Graves took the hit with shock and in his catatonic state of attempting to make sense of what was happening, at first did not act when she without thinking attempted to slap his left cheek also. He had earned no less.

Suddenly however, he came to and with great speed, more than she would have thought him capable of, caught her wrist in his hand.

Until this moment, Margaret had not thought much- chastising this rude man had come to her instinctively, without thinking twice- being held by the wrist suddenly called her from the red-tinged haze of rage back to the present moment.            

His grip on her wrist was firm, but not crushingly so. Nevertheless, it enraged her to be treated so and therefore tried to free herself with her other hand, which proved a futile endeavour for now, he held both her wrists firm, one to either side of her head.

For a moment, both of them glared at the other with glances so venomous she was certain they would be fatal to any person of a less strong character than they both obviously were. All the while she felt no fear, no, not of this man- he was old, slow and probably cared too much about his good name and his rank as to allow himself to raise his hand or do worse things to her.

Rather roughly, he pulled her closer so she could feel the heat of his body and the air exiting his mouth against her ear as he hissed lowly: “Now you will listen to me, you-“

“What?”, she provoked him, cocking her head in a mocking fashion, “I encourage you to reconsider, Admiral. Whatever you do or don’t do is of no consequence to me. Consider this: a man barging into a lady’s boudoir before she is dressed, a stranger at that. What does this look like? Do I need to inform you of that? I believe you know the Articles of War. Article 32:   _If any flag officer, captain, or commander, or lieutenant belonging to the fleet, shall be convicted before a court martial of behaving in a scandalous, infamous, cruel, oppressive, or fraudulent manner, unbecoming the character of an officer, he shall be dismissed from His Majesty's service._ If I were to accuse you of forceful indecencies committed against me, you were to lose everything, perhaps even more than just your admiral’s uniform. No, sir, you listen to me.”

The image of two ruthless tigers in the jungle appeared before her mind’s eye, the two sharp-toothed and –clawed cats circling another, ready to strike.

Without a prior warning, Admiral Graves dropped her wrists.

“You disgust me”, he said at last after a brief silence in an odd tone Margaret could not quite place.

“I believe I have heard worse”, Margaret replied and seated herself again. “Now, if you will leave me, I cannot sit here all day and quarrel.“

Their eyes met again, fierceness meeting fierceness before she motioned him to leave. Opening the door (behind which she suspected her maid to be eavesdropping), he was already on his way out when Margaret reconsidered: on the one hand, he deserved no less than he had gotten. On the other, if news of their unfortunate meeting were to spread, either because he in his anger decided to forego her warning or the overly inquisitive servant would talk, her own reputation would be in jeopardy and damaged before she could remedy it again to some extent.

“Admiral Graves?”

He turned around, leaning against the doorframe with an air of rebellious nonchalance that might have fitted a teenage boy, but not a grown man of, so she estimated, more than fifty.

“Let us not part thusly.”

“You wished me to go”, he retorted promptly, “I did as you asked me.”

He sounded weary. 

“Believe me, I think what happened between us was _rather unfortunate_. We are of different opinions and I resent for having threatened you with libel, but, you see, there are few options open to women to defend themselves.”

Graves still looked doubtful, but displayed a willingness to listen.                                                                                                                                                                             

“Admiral, setting our latest dispute aside for a moment, let me get to the point regarding last night without adding any great preamble to my words: I was offended not at your conduct alone, it was the general tone and unwillingness to discuss pertinent issues that offended me, in particular the way in which my words were dismissed as inconsequential in comparison with _dessert_. You however did not let it lie and had the dubious honour to make me realise I could no longer support listening to such a pack of nonsense for the rest of the evening. In addition to this, I was quite offended by your remark that I should take my conversation topic elsewhere, where gentlemen like you don’t need to hear it.”

Graves nodded.

“Your anger still does not give you the right to strike me”, he said and touched his still-red cheek. She had aimed perfectly, it seemed.

“After you called me a series of vicious words.”

His mien was sufficiently embarrassed for her to be somewhat mollified.

“I apologise, it was ungentlemanly.”

Was he expecting her to apologise, too? Perhaps she ought to, perhaps not. But Margaret felt the redness of angry blood fading from her vision; the tigers had calmed, had become two tame English house cats again.

“I should not have struck you, though I was and am still of the opinion you deserved it”, she apologised best as she could without omitting her true feelings.

The man grimaced awkwardly at her.

“Are we to strike a peace, then?”

Unable to resist his possibly accidental stroke of comedic genius, she agreed.

“Peace it is.”

As done between statesmen, he took her hand to shake on it. In the meantime, the servant girl who had answered the door had had a chair brought in for the Admiral to sit on compleatly without having been asked to do so (and it being superfluous at that) and now tarried leaving the room, Margaret noticed. Indecent little thing. 

“As I am here already”, Admiral Graves began and seated himself in the chair, making it clear he was not to leave any time soon, “tell me, then.”

“Tell you what?”

“The things you accuse me of being ignorant about.”

Well, he had asked, and he would receive answers.

“Is it not important to think about the education of those who will one day take into their hands the future of our country?”, Margaret enquired and added “say, do you have children, Admiral?” in hopes this argument might prove persuasive. One would always do everything for one’s own child or children- one would kill, commit treason or sacrifice one’s self if such meant the beloved little one would be safe from harm.

Despite not being a mother in the sense of having given life to a tiny little creature and having brought the same into the world under great pain and toil, she could identify with said statement to which in her view all parents would or could subscribe to.

There was at home at Aldwinckle a tiny six-year-old girl, fine-boned and slight with very dark hair and bright hazel eyes waiting for her, eyes that resembled those of Margaret’s late sister Elizabeth to a great degree.

The little one, whose name was also Elizabeth, had been born to good parents, but Fate had decided to take them from her before her pretty, little dark head could have grasped the impact of her loss.

From the day of her birth, the child had been a compleat orphan.

Mrs Elizabeth Gwillim had died tragically giving birth to her first and only child, the little Elizabeth, a tragic fate that befell many women, especially when they were set to become mothers for the first time in advanced years, as had been the case with Elizabeth.

Colonel Thomas Gwillim, who had distinguished himself in Canada under General Wolfe, the hero of the Plains of Abraham, had fallen in the Landgraviate of Hesse-Kassel on the continent before her sister, his wife, had even known she was with child.

Theirs was a terrible fate- they had not been young anymore when they had married, Elizabeth had been twenty-seven, and had desired to have children for twelve years, but were never granted their wish. Until it was too late.

Thomas had joined his regiment, gone to war and all that had returned was a letter saying he had passed. It had hit Elizabeth, who could no longer afford to keep their house in London, greatly, but she had suffered grief, too- Thomas had been their cousin, and she had liked him.

Throughout these sad days, she had remained at her older sister’s side, who had been in need of her as a comforter, a friend and helping hand.

Elizabeth’s first motion had been to move in with the Gwillims for a while, feeling it was her duty to comfort her late husband’s parents, and she had followed her sister there.

A few weeks later, Margaret had taken note of Elizabeth’s changed appearance and worried over the wan face and sunken eyes and thus had confronted her on a walk alone.

What her sister then proceeded to tell her she never would have guessed: “I haven’t bled. It was three months last week. I feel nauseous in the mornings and I cannot support my stays being laced too tightly anymore.”

Stone-faced, Elizabeth had waited for her reply- perhaps fearing she would accuse her of adultery, but such couldn’t be, she had been with Elizabeth all the time. Just before leaving, perhaps on their very last night together, Thomas Gwillim had fathered the child he and his wife had waited a dozen years for.

Together, they had wept a little for the melancholy of the circumstances of the child’s existence until their hearts felt lighter and before they had braved the Gwillims, Mr and Mrs Gwillim and their two daughters, who had had the same Sense as herself never to marry, who were overjoyed.

And perhaps, the little one that seemed to grow a little bit every day had helped both families to forget about their grief and sorrow for a short while, united everyone in a strong sense that although he or she would grow up without a papa, the babe would have a mother and a small army of relatives trying to be all the things for her Thomas should have embodied.

Elizabeth was old for a first-time mother being in her late thirties but nobody fretted much (at least outwardly), or did not want to fret, for God would surely not permit the family to befall another melancholy event after the death of Thomas Gwillim overseas.

When the baby finally came however, all their happiness turned to dust. Elizabeth Gwillim, her beloved sister, died. Something had gone very wrong, for although they had managed to get the baby, a little girl, out, Elizabeth just wouldn’t stop bleeding. The midwives had told them then the only thing left to do was to pray, they couldn’t do anything for Elizabeth anymore. They had then pulled a blanket over the new mother in order to give her some dignity in her last moments by covering the blood and her worn, half-naked body up (which did not help much, for the characteristic iron-like smell of blood kept lingering in the air) and handed the swaddled bundle to her mother and Elizabeth had held the little girl for the first and the last time in her life and smiled, _smiled_ , she who knew already she would not live had _smiled_ at the very tiny baby in her arms, pressed her closely against her chest and kissed her forehead: “Mamma loves you very much.”

She had grown too weak to continue holding her daughter soon and asked for Margaret to take her. Her heart had bled when she had received her niece from her dying sister’s hands and she had wanted to cry very badly, but kept herself from doing so.

Elizabeth’s suffering had ended very soon after. The next day, they had buried her and when the funeral was conducted, the reverend had returned inside the church to christen the baby Elizabeth Posthuma in honour to her orphaned state and the parents she would never know.

Ever since the day her sister had passed the minute new-born into her hands, Margaret had known she would care for the girl, consider her her own child and it did not matter to her anymore she had chosen not to have any. This tiny person needed her, and she would love her as her mother would have done, had she lived.

Six years later, the little girl called her “Aunt”, yet both of them knew she was, next to her grandmamma of course, the closest she would have to a mother.

“No, I do not”, Admiral Graves said, shaking his head in a motion of regret. “The late Mrs Graves and I were never so blessed.”

“I am terribly sorry”, Margaret offered feebly, knowing that these words of comfort were never perceived as such since they were expected to be said and as such reduced to a mere motion of curtesy.

“And you, since you do not have-“

“I have a niece”, she replied quickly, “we are quite close.”

She did not want to relay to the man who was a stranger almost to her still the sad story of her sister and cousin and their child. It was none of his business.

“I have quite many nieces and nephews”, the Admiral replied and as he said so, his face was illumined by a somewhat ginger, yet proud smile.

“My brother John has a large brood, thirteen boys and girls. And Thomas has two sons as well- alas, I do only correspond with my nieces and nephews infrequently, for the majority of them lives in Ireland. And I have a godson whom I care for deeply. He is sixteen now and will join the Army soon.”

“But you are a naval man”, she prodded, “and he joins the army- one could think your education of him was unsuccessful.”

What had been intended to be some (not quite so) harmless japing at the well-known rivalry between His Majesty’s land- and sea-bound forces was quite evidently not well-received; the Admiral looked at her with a sober mien and proceeded to explain:

“He is not made to conquer the high seas- you see, he is a strong, intrepid lad of quite some height, active and with a brilliant mind, but his health is quite frail- only last year, we nearly lost him to the same illness that claimed his father aboard his ship off Anticosti Island nine years earlier. His constitution would only worsen on board a cold and leaking ship in the stiff gale of the ocean. Besides, I fear the boy’s mathematical talents are insufficient to pass the examination for lieutenant. The Army offers more chances to him; he has a quick mind, rides well and knows no fear- I have hopes he might make a handsome major someday, or even a general.”

The intimate matter of the conversation touched Margaret, especially since talk of children who lost their parents young touched her deeply for personal reasons, yet made her uncertain how to respond to him at the same time. Despite the trust Admiral Graves obviously shewed to her in relaying his godson’s misfortune to her, she felt unable or unwilling or however one should call it to speak about Elizabeth. 

“You are proud of your charge”, she therefore answered in a tone that did not lack benevolence and warmth, “do you not think we have to think carefully on how and in what state we leave our country to them, to your godson and to my niece and the girls of her generation?”

“I- perhaps I was thoughtless- you see, I did not mean to belittle learnedness in women, not at all, and I am sure your niece can consider herself lucky to be allowed to spend time in your company.”

Attempting to ignore the genuine compliment, she riposted: “my niece is well taken care of; but what about other little girls, other women? Not all can belong to the highest ranks of society or be born into the Quality, yet the lowly have a right to live without experiencing excessive want and constant starvation. It is my opinion that everyone who is god-fearing and toils hard should live with their belly full and a roof over their head. While a boy born into poverty can rise from his lowly station and make his way upwards to loftier echelons, his sister is fated to remain poor; she cannot rise through the ranks of the army or do business; either she is shackled to her parental home as a helpmeet or must be wed to a man of similar circumstances, damned to eternal poverty by nought but her gender. Say, do you think it just?”

“No”, he instantly replied with a vigorous movement of the head that gave away he had never thought about this topic, likely because he never had previously had any use to do so.

For a few moments more, she let him remain in a state of terrible limbo in the fear he might never be forgiven, before she finally said she would indeed let the matter go.

“Might I return, to shew the full extent of my ruefulness to you, and accompany to the Pump Room later on? It is a nice day, tho’ cold, if you do not mind walking-“

“I do not.”

And quite curiously, she did not mind at all.

He begged his leave and went on his way with orders to return at two o’clock in the afternoon with his cheek almost fully returned to its natural colour again. In the meantime, Margaret felt rather proud for having educated the gentleman thusly and dressed to combat the cold outside, adding to her coiffure a new hat, which she had bought only very recently in London.

Indeed, he returned and offered her his arm to walk on, which she accepted. It would be improper to shew herself with him alone, but given her age and the constant presence of people on the streets of Bath at all hours, she did not view it as endangering her reputation, especially since she was not walking on the arm of a twenty-year-old rogue dressed in scarlet, but a somewhat older gentleman who for the occasion had donned a rather demure suit of black with silver ornamentation embroidered around the button holes and a waistcoat of silver-grey, adding unnecessary gravitas to the tall, rotund man who was accustomed to command and lead in battle.

Graves was, as she found, incredibly agile and appeared to genuinely enjoy walking with her, greeting acquaintances as they passed. 

His step was measured, not too strutting, not slouching, and took care of his rigid deportment also, which she often found lacking in some of the youthful slatterns and equally (if not more so) depraved supposed gentlemen who were nothing but lusty, disobedient boys that made up a considerable quantity of contemporary youth.

At the Pump Room, Graves offered to pay for her water and to fetch it for her while she would find them a spot to be seated in, which was an optimistic wish at best, for the crowds that afternoon were quite thick, masses of people sitting, standing, chatting with another and to even heighten the noise, the band was playing merry melodies to create a chearful atmosphere. The musician’s fight was more a forlorn hope than anything; they could hardly take on the ever-present buzz of a thousand conversations that only grew louder whenever the musicians tried the same tactic to make themselves heard.

In essence, she did not like it very much there, but one had to go and be seen there and besides, taking the waters was the whole point of a trip to Bath, at least in theory- one usually came for the amusement, for meeting people from across the country who would otherwise never congregate in the same room, gentlemen and ladies of Quality from Yorkshire to Kent, the bon ton from all over Britain congregating in the city, but one could hardly argue that improving one’s health while amusing one’s self was a bad thing.

Margaret, searching, asking one of the servants of the establishments where they could find two more places to sit, was slowly losing her patience. A woman of her station should not have to stand, even if her design was to drink up and leave fairly quickly if not someone of importance would cross her path and wish to talk to her. It was a cruel twist of fate that someone as she, of near-aristocratic standing (some of her more recent ancestors had been part of the aristocracy of this country) and it was outrageous someone of good lineage ought to be searching for a seat that should be offered to her upon entering, and if not for her than for her company, a man who had defended his country and helped to bring about a victory that was commonly thought of as one of the greatest naval victories in recent history) did not hold any titles; by birth, she was better than some who had been ennobled only recently and more well-mannered, too.

Trying to keep her countenance, she heard someone politely clearing his throat close to her left ear and, upon turning, recognised her companion.

“It appears we will take it standing”, Margaret commented dryly while attempting to conceal a frown and took her glass from Admiral Graves, who appeared to not enjoy the entire situation either, which was only natural, given he was a country gentleman and likely not used to the commotion surrounding them.

They drank up quickly (which they would have done anyway, for one could not bear the at best foul taste of the water on one’s tongue for too long) and decided to leave, not knowing where else the afternoon would take them.

Margaret was thankful when they pushed and shoved their way back to the refreshing air outside and inhaled several mouthfuls deeply, before she glanced up at Admiral Graves in a quizzical manner, asking him without words how they would proceed from here. She did not know quite what to do; for beneath the personification of ignorance and tedium, he appeared to be friendly (when he chose to be, at least) and had elected to spend his afternoon with her. Although they did not talk about it, the awkwardness of the morning, the rude names and the slap in the face, still hung between them, were left unspoken but ever-present all the same. 

So far, they walked aimlessly down the street and were passing by a milliner’s shop, in whose window Margaret saw displayed an array of fans; a very pretty one, tho’ not overly expensive in its form with its sticks made of painted wood, stood out to her for the scene it depicted on its small canvas of folded paper attached to the sticks: it shewed a garden-scene, with ladies, children, gentlemen and a few little dogs engaged in all manner of activities.  

Somehow, this item reminded her of her little niece, whom she had promised to bring a trinket from Bath and who would surely like it and feel like a grown lady for having a new fan.

Just as she was about to leave the Admiral’s arm to go inside and enquire the price of the fan, she felt a sudden shove, caused by Admiral Graves’ side being roughly pushed into hers, and she in turn was sent to tumble and would almost have taken a fall, but was luckily able to steady herself by reaching out for the wall of the shop.

“My wig!”, a man nearby exclaimed, and without even having noticed him before, it was clear what had transpired: a boy, perhaps between the ages of fourteen and sixteen years old, had reached for his wig, and torn it off his head, and was attempting to get away with it.

She acted upon instinct, there could not have been any element of conscious thought when she saw the boy, holding something white and hair-like looking in one hand, a few yards ahead of her, his progress down the street slowed by a carriage crossing it slowly and, running reached out for him, getting a hold of him by the scruff of his neck.

“Let me go”, the sinful heathen screamed, leaving Margaret worried he would overpower her as he, for the moment futilely, tried to free himself by kicking and squirming, flailing his arms at her, but Margaret stayed firm.

Luckily, in the moment she thought she would have to let go because the boy exhibited greater strength than she could hold for long, someone was by her side and caught the criminal by the front of his shabby brown coat that might have been saffron or perhaps a vibrant orange long ago when it had belonged to its first, not its fifth owner, shaking him.

Admiral Graves had come to assist her and proceeded to take justice into his own hands before justice as per the law could be served.

The gentle man (not necessarily a _gentleman_ at all times, as the evening prior and the morning had shewn) she had encountered, who had been so verbose in his attempts at exculpation, had transform’d, transform’d utterly. He was quite frightening to watch- not that she was frightened, for his ire was directed solely against the youthful criminal. Years at sea giving command had hardened his voice, that had to be heard even against averse winds, and knowing of its loudness and power, he employed the same to frighten the boy, who trembled as he looked around searching for a route of escape but found none, for the Admiral’s voice had drawn a crowd of passers-by to halt and watch, forming a human cage around them.

Oddly enough, Margaret’s thoughts upon watching the scene were of relief- thankfully, Elizabeth had been a girl. She would not have liked to raise something as the child in front of her, a nasty little boy. Yet it had also to be taken into consideration that the boy had likely not acted alone and was forced by the circumstances of his family, or perhaps even lack thereof, to turn to thievery.

“What have you done?! Answer me!”, Graves bellowed, spittle flying in a revolting fashion as he reduced the offender to a heap of cheaply-made clothes and demure tears and Margaret watched on, studying him with an almost morbid interest.

“I stole”, the lad had the good sense to admit to the crime.

“You stole”, he then repeated, “and what happens to thieves? Were you on my ship lad, I would see you-“

His anger was justified. A wig was expensive. Although she could muster a measure of compassion for the boy who was not really a boy anymore, she firmly believed in the necessity to chastise miscreants, as she herself had done the very same day.

While Graves was giving the boy a quite terrifying speech on honesty and the virtues of a good Christian life in a tone of voice that was not even faintly reminiscent of a clergyman holding a sermon, the victim, his almost hairless scalp bare, approached and thanked her. His cocked hat that had been cast to the ground when the wig under it had been pulled away by force had apparently been retrieved by a kind soul and save for a little dust and dirt was not damaged.

“Thank you”, the gentleman repeated profusely, prompting Margaret to nod and give him a cool smile, as one did accepting thanks, even if it was for such a rather unusual action.

He was a reverend from somewhere north, elderly and quite immobilised with gout, wherefore he relied on the aid of his servant and a stick to walk and had thus been easy prey to his attacker. As according to the Good Book and the teachings of the Lord, the reverend decided to dispense mercy and ordered Graves to let the boy go, who quickly dropp’d the wig and was gone within the blink of an eye, disappearing somewhere in the dark shadows cast by the houses in the afternoon sun.

“I wouldn’t have let him go free”, Admiral Graves huffed angrily as he walked her home, to where they had decided to go- after all, the streets were quite unsafe.

“You did well”, he praised her, “without your quick-wittedness the boy would have escaped with his loot.”

”’tis a pity the reverend would not see him incarcerated”, Margaret added and the rather tall man walking next to her nodded.

"Miss Spinckes, I am appalled to say that for the first time, we agree on something."

His left hand touched his cheek in a knowing gesture as he gave her a look one could almost classify as friendly.

"Good."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manteau-de-lit: literally a “bed-coat”, worn by upper-class women just as the name describes as a piece of comfy informal home-wear. It fits rather loosely and ends somewhere around thigh-length and is therefore worn over a petticoat. Among lower-class women, the same type of garment, made from more inexpensive fabric, could be worn as daywear, too.
> 
> Jumps: a more loosely-fitting (under-)garment than stays, and therefore viewed as being slovenly dressed when worn in public.
> 
> Ladies could receive people while in their boudoirs, e.g. to have someone to chat to while their hair was being done, but it’s still a little uncommon (and frankly quite a bit shocking) for a solitary gentleman to barge into the morning routine of a lady (an unmarried one at that) unannounced.
> 
> The characters of both Samuel and Margaret are strongly based on their historical counterparts. Both were headstrong and liked having their way. They almost definitively fought, at the latest when nineteen-year-old Elizabeth decided she would, contrary to her aunt’s wishes, marry Samuel’s godson, who had come home from the war in North America to recover in the winter of 1781/82. Almost immediately (they were engaged only half a year after meeting as adults for the first time) they fell in love. Samuel encouraged the young couple (perhaps he was the one responsible for letting the two go out alone without chaperones) while Margaret did her best to convince him Simcoe was not a suitable match. Margaret’s relationship with Colonel and Mrs Simcoe was often tense and just as she could be protective and supportive she had it in her to be the mother-in-law (well sort of) from hell, but that is covered in “The Colonel’s Portrait”, in case you're interested.  
> Samuel fairly easily losing his temper when really angry is based on history, too. When stationed in Boston as commander of the North American Station during the American Revolutionary War, he was so frustrated with London not sending him the men to man his ships, especially marines (without wanting to delve too deeply into the issue, let’s say he was right in his assessment of the situation, would have needed the requested hands dearly and as a reward for constantly alerting his superiors to the problems he was facing became the government’s official scape goat for everything they handled wrongly with regard to the North American colonies), he one day quite out of the blue took his anger out on a random marines major who unfortunately had crossed his path, shouting at and berating him. The situation escalated so far it earned him an official telling-off from London. Another time, he got into a fistfight over HAY with a Bostonian civilian (he was 62, the other guy ten years his junior by the way). He lost, receiving two black eyes and for good measure, his opponent broke his sword in half, too.  
> Much as a frustrated Samuel must have been hell to work with, as a private citizen, he was quite different: he and his first wife Elizabeth Sedgwick didn’t have any children, which seems to have impacted him profoundly. Samuel himself had four siblings, three brothers and a sister. His brother John had a staggering THIRTEEN children- quite likely Samuel felt it was unfair that his brother had disproportionately many children whereas he had none. So when his friend Captain John Simcoe made him the godfather of his baby son, Samuel immediately started to think of baby John Graves Simcoe as “Infant Graves”. When the younger John was seven years old, his father died and his mother moved the family to Exeter, close to Samuel’s seat at Honiton. He took his role as godfather seriously and tried his best to fill his late friend’s place in the young boy’s life as best as he could. He also had another godson, his nephew Richard, and blatantly showed preferment to any youngster by the name of Graves serving under him- there are hilarious letters in which he tries to explain why exactly he promoted Nephew X/Y/Z to his superiors. When Samuel married Margaret and she brought her little niece Elizabeth Gwillim along to live with them, he was happy to have the six/seven-year-old move in and regarded her as his daughter; the two particularly enjoyed going riding together.
> 
> Elizabeth Gwillim's tragic family history is historically accurate.
> 
> The water at Bath contains minerals that account for the foul taste. 
> 
> Wig theft was a real problem in 18th century England as wigs were expensive and sought after. Thieves sometimes used small children or purpose-built stick-contraptions to obtain them.


	3. Samuel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To all of you who've updated before I did, I'm doing my best to catch up reviewing! I'm sorry it's taking me a few days now. <3

Upon rising the next morning, it was almost inconceivable to him how much had happened within the past day; at the Fort, his days were usually filled with thoughts of his estate and conversations with his steward about the lease of lands, the mending of fences and the like. When the profitable upkeep of Hembury Fort House did not plague him with thoughts of hay prices, pastures and petty disputes between tenants, he could usually be found in his library, or riding, often alone but at times joined by a friend or acquaintance from Honiton or his steward when a matter further afield required his personal attention.

When in London, his life revolved more around society, almost like in Bath, but with the Admiralty near and always a flock of other naval men gathering in the town, he often sought out the like-minded company of fellow officers, where they would recount their glory-days of Cartagena or some other similarly far-flung port.

In Bath however, life was idle; an idleness that well suited the young, who enjoyed the promenading, going to the theatre, card-parties and dances without sparing a thought for the coming morrow, but that at the same time was a luxury privy to them alone, who still had more time ahead of them than behind them.

The reverse was true for him; at fifty-five, he had no illusions about being nearer to the day of his death than to the day of his birth.

When he had returned to his lodgings after having seen Miss Spinckes home safely, a letter from his godson had waited there for him- the lad had left Eton after a particularly shocking escapade for which he was not to blame alone, but certainly had been involved in, then been punished for it before deciding that he did not like it there anymore and was now preparing for Oxford. From having known Young Graves and his sometimes unruly nature coupled with a certain bull-headedness neither he nor Mrs Simcoe had managed to wean him from led him to have his doubts about the lad’s career in the law. He was not made to be a lawyer, not conniving enough and always spoke his mind. Altho’ the boy did not know yet himself, he was more than certain he would see him enter the Army soon, since it had been abundantly clear he did not have the constitution and mathematical abilities to become a naval officer and he predicted the lad’s stay at his studies to be short. They had discussed it before, but one of his friends from Eton was going zo Oxford, and perhaps out of youthful indecisiveness he had ruled the university to be as good an idea as any for a young gentleman intent to make his mark on the world.

One would wait and see- he was so certain of his prediction however he would have settled a bet of a thousand pounds on it that his godson would soon wear scarlet- coming to think of it, he had even told Miss Spinckes so during their most interesting conversation.

Sighing when he thought of the boy and the disastrous episode in Eton last November which had caused his mother sleepless nights and left him to comfort the poor widow, who had come to the Fort unannounced one day holding the letter she had received from the school in her hand detailing her son’s misdemeanour, he called for Stephens to shave and dress him, before he would head to the Pump Room and in the afternoon go to indulge in the activity reflected in the city’s name.

He endured being shaven with pretended indifference, for his right cheek, though there was not much visible pointing to what had happened to him, still smarted a little.

The insolence this woman possessed was immeasurable in any unit of weight known to Man, and yet, in retrospect, he was not angry with her. He knew he should be, for he had let this total stranger treat him thusly and yet he was not.

He had found the previous day quite eventful, not in any strictly negative sense even, bar the altercation with Miss Spinckes, who as he had learned would not only use her feminine charms and learned talk to win an argument.

The fierceness this woman exhibited, both in personal matters and as a thief-taker, was admirable. It still smarted him he had allowed himself to be struck by a woman, but was somewhat reconciled with the event as he was a gentleman, and a gentleman would not strike back when a lady was involved.

He’d been in fights several times, yet to fight a lady would be most unbecoming of a gentleman to be sure. They were unequal in terms of their physiques, he well equipp’d with pounds the years had accumulated, quite tall and benefitting of the advantage of fighting experience, both strategically from afar and hand-to-hand, whereas Miss Spinckes was pleasantly shaped, not thin in the stick-like sense yet slender enough to be called so and endowed with the right amount of feminine assets dress’d neatly in cloathing that would prohibit fighting her based on the cost of her petticoats alone, not to speak of the parure he had seen her wear the night at Braithwaite’s.

From his humble beginnings as the fourth son of an Irish clergyman to a rear-admiral in the Royal Navy, he had advanced in life immensely and had on his way accumulated wealth enow to make a comfortable living through promotion and prize money; he owned a house in the country and the lands surrounding it and had a second abode in London. He could do with his money as he pleased without needing to heed the cost of certain items too greatly, but compared to the silken fabric however that had enwrapp’d Miss Spinckes’ form the previous morn, his usual manner of dress appeared almost plain and unassuming in a Quaker-like manner.

Rich in her own right, authoritative and outspoken in a way that treaded the thin line between frankness and rudeness like an artiste performing daring tricks on a tightrope, the reason why she enjoyed a solitary lifestyle were plain to him.

Assessing the enemy, their might, morale and military equipment was what he was trained to do from the age of nineteen, when he had joined the Navy, on and drawing from this fount of experience that included the glorious victory over the French fleet at Quiberon, where he had been captain of the _Duke_ , he drew the conclusion that Miss Spinckes’ arsenal of sharp observations and adroit remarks could prove more dangerous than sailing a single ship of His Most Britannic Majesty’s Navy into the harbour of Rochefort in broad daylight while proudly flying the naval ensign and having the marine band play _Heart of Oak_ on deck.

Chuckling at the comparison and how Miss Spinckes, tho’ women were by popular superstition always thought to bring ill tidings to a ship’s crew, was certain beyond doubt this particular member of the Sex could ward off a French fleet twenty ships strong by her presence on deck alone and single-handedly lay waste to any fortified French harbour to boot.

She would probably show no fear, demand to be let on board of the French admiral’s flagship and then point his lack of manners and courage out to him until he would obediently serve her like a whipped puppy dog caught in the act of chewing on his master’s slippers.

One could only hope she would never turn on her country and let her patriotism transform into the opposite, for he feared she would put all female pirates he had heard of to shame- and most of the men also. She was more fearsome than Anne Bonny, more powerful even than Grace O’Malley, whose stories had resounded even in the hills and dales of County Londonderry, where he had grown up, more than a hundred years since the she-pirate who thought herself equal to the great Queen Elizabeth, had died.

His native county was far from the west of the island where the Pirate Queen O’Malley had had her seat, and he English and Protestant enough of blood not to be Irish except for the distinctive lilt in his voice he attempted, sometimes futilely, to hide in polite society, to be unable to pronounce her true name right, which in the language of the Gaels meant something akin to “Grace the Bald”, for having cut her hair out of necessity to conceal her true identity on her first sea-voyage as a mere girl from her disapproving father.

Miss Spinckes would need not to adhere to any parental rulings and instead he could picture her well on board her ship, her dark hair with only a few thin strands of silver barely noticeable to the eye flowing freely down her back, standing on deck in a coat and greatcoat, probably taken from a naval officer kill’d in combat with epaulettes and a fierce look of indomitability in her eyes.

And would their ships meet, he mused, she would conquer it, for she would be fearless in her attacks, a true Pirate-Queen, whereas all he could claim for himself was the Irish She-Pirate’s epithet.

He had cut his hair, before worn in the style common among sailors, long and tied into a braid but had decided to crop it short and invest in a set of wigs the year before, disliking the evident receding nature of his hairline and the silver threads among the brown that had multiplied over what had appeared to him as a very brief amount of time, mere months perhaps.

Now short, often cropped down to a stubble, his natural hair was sufficiently covered beneath a wig and cocked hat, ready to go out, be among people.

The day was passed passably. In the afternoon, he bathed, but not at the King’s Bath, for it was too full for him to enjoy and frankly, he suspected the water there to be not as healthy as it might be would not a hundred and easily more people bathe and do the Lord only knew what else in it day in and day out.

The brown linen of his bathing attire clung tightly on to his body when he exited the water shortly before the bath would close for the evening. Back on dry land, he suffered the aftereffect of his bathing for a few minutes in which his body still felt as weightless as it had in the water before Gravity and the winter-weary bones of an aged man reclaimed him.

Wrapp’d up tightly in his trusty old naval great-coat he did not have the heart to replace to combat the chill and prevent a common cold to come and nest in his lungs, he watched with interest the pedestrians and other mounted or coach-driving persons he passed by from the back of the cheap hired calash taking him to his lodgings.

The driver had had the good sense to pull the hood up, so despite the winter cold, he was somewhat comfortable.

Hungry and intent on an early supper, he had the boy go to the usual establishment where he tended to order from as the food there tasted reminiscently of what Cook at home at the Fort made to bring him post-haste.

As the evening was already settling over Bath with a dusky glow and hungry persons such as he seeking for a decent bite before joining the evening’s frolicking had already begun to flock to the inn sign of their choice, his preferred kitchen would hopefully have some beef cooking already.

Having rid himself of his somewhat leisurely attire only hastily thrown on to shield his body from the wintry air in the streets between the bath and his lodgings, he had washed off the somewhat peculiar smell of the water with a washcloth and dressed for bed, intending not to go out on that night. He was too old to be out and about every night, and having spent the entire day in the busy beehive that was the city, he felt entitled to an evening spent in quiet retirement in his lodgings with a novel he would dislike anyone to find out he owned, perhaps some more serious literature to digest afterwards in order to combat the moral dereliction brought on by the first with reinforcements built with pebbles from the solid rockery of an ancient philosopher’s teachings and the finest juice of the Palomino grape. Per his profession and firm belief in the country he served, he was not very fond of the Spanish, but they certainly had to be justly credited for this particular barrelled achievement.

With his banyan hanging loosely about his shoulders and his night cap put on, he leaned back in his rather comfortable chair feeling quite content with himself and the day; it was still early to be sure, the young ones would make a day of the night and like the owls and bats they were sleep through the next day, but at his age and after years of zealous service at sea where the Spartan furnishings of a warship, action and bad weather had often ensured he had even as a captain and later rear-admiral not been comfortable or at rest very often, he felt entitled to some justly-earned peace and brief hours of idleness.

Samuel Graves sighed contently when he stretched in order to bring his naked feet closer to the warming fire, careful not to accidentally burn himself or the slippers he had carelessly discarded on the carpet by having them laying too close to the fireplace.

Stephens had in wise foresight provided him with a fairly recent newspaper, which he was intent on reading until the food he had ordered would arrive.

The news proved nothing of particular significance had happened, likely because the new year was still very, very young and everyone in charge in London still nursing headaches from the period between Christmas and the new year’s celebrations.

In local news, arrivals of prominent guests in Bath were listed as well as a few accounts of criminal activities which would not so much aid to Mr F— who had been beaten rather badly by two unknown assailants with whom he had been in disagreement with or Miss B—, whose maid had run away taking with her her mistress’ jewels catching the criminals still running free as to entertain the reader of the publication.

His eyes skimmed the aforementioned section quickly when they fell on the second part of the page, made up of details pertaining the social calendar of the city; when fancy balls or concerts would be held and how high the admission fee was etc.

On this very evening, one could expect a comedic play was to be put on at the Theatre Royal in Orchard Street- one of Garrick’s.

Barely had his eyes put the letters together to form the title of the play that his mind had already formed a thought.

“Stephens? Stephens!”, he bellowed for his valet, who approached him in quick steps when he heard his master shout in the same manner he would at a man located in the main mast’s crow’s nest from his position on the quarter deck.

“Stephens, lay out my uniform, best as you can. There is no time for great preparation. I have decided to go out tonight after all.”

Stephens bowed, which made him impatient- “hurry up, man!”

Stephens was gone very quickly, finding his cloaths and to his great luck, the boy tasked with bringing him something edible returned only a handful of moments later.

“Put that down, I have a more important task for you”, he said impatiently, though not as fiercely as he had spoken to Stephens. Along with a sixpence for his troubles, he gave the boy the address of Miss Spinckes and the order to report back to him immediately with a clear answer of either no or yes.

An hour  and a half (for that was how much time there was until the performance started) was scarce enough time to dress, but perhaps Miss Spinckes would approve of his spontaneous fancy and join him.

If not, he might ask her another time.

On the table, the beef he had before so craved grew even colder than the lukewarm state it had arrived in and he only managed to take a few quick bites before racing for the hired carriage waiting below his window the boy had been tasked to hire in the event of a positive outcome in order to make it first to Miss Spinckes’, then to the theatre on time.

It a soft rain accompanied his travels through the glittering wet streets of Bath to where Miss Spinckes had her rooms.

She must have watched out for the carriage already, for they had not come to a halt yet when she had stepped outside already, a black silhouette against the faint light of the lamp illumining the entrance hall she had just left.

“Good evening”, she greeted him as she mounted and sat herself opposite him, “I was quite surprised.”

“I quite surprised myself”, he smiled at her, finding that no-one would remark upon her doubtlessly hasty toilette and maquillage, for she appeared to be quite the vision.

“It is certainly not customary”, she frowned disapprovingly, causing his heart to sink for an instant until she continued: “yet I found myself quite taken with the idea. What is it we’re watching?”

“Garrick”, he answered, “ _Miss In Her Teens_. A comedic play.”

To that, she said nothing more, causing him to suspect she was not content with what they were about to watch but did not express any such sentiment aloud.

They rode in silence to the theatre, where he managed to procure seats for them that left them rather well placed in a box. Surely, to be seated as advantageously as they were had been a rather costly affair, the price however Miss Spinckes needed not to know.

When he turned to take her to their allotted seats, she had discarded of her cloak and revealed a robe in the French style underneath in a vibrant colour what ladies more well-versed in the language of fashion would call cherry-coloured in French, a term he might have heard once or twice but forgotten. Elegant, voluminous sleeves and clever floral details added to the elegance of her dress, as did the matching shoes and pearls, some worn around her neck and another string wound into her coiffure.

Ashamed he might be accused of staring which was not his intention, he lowered his eyes and pretended to gaze through the room to study the other guests.

The play commenced and saved him from any possible accusations of this kind; alas, the acting was poor, the story thin and not very enticing and the audience impatient.

When Miss Biddy’s suitors met to duel, a gaggle of doubtlessly well-inebriated young rascals stormed the stage, some declaring allegiance to one or the other party and meant to carry out a fight in earnest, had not one of the actors persuaded them to stop.

His disapproval of the poo performance he bore readily for anyone to see on his face; as a quick glance to his guest revealed, Miss Spinckes thought similarly.

In the glow of the lights, her face, which he had come to know wearing a stern mien, was awarded a milder glow despite her evident dislike of the play that added to her eyes a glittering almost mischievous in nature and to her cheeks a rosiness of a seraphic quality.

Had he been honest to himself, he had not so much watched the play as Miss Spinckes and privately chided himself for it.

She would not want to be ogled at, no-one liked that and if anything, it was an expression of rudeness and unwitting confession to one’s unrefined manners if caught.

 _If caught_. So far, he could not say she had noticed anything throughout the evening, or perhaps was too polite to reprimand him.

Miss Spinckes was a woman of beauty combined with an unconventional charm appealing only to those, he supposed, with a similar set of thoughts and Opinions.

In this thought, he caught himself admitting to finding her pretty and charming in a manner that could not be rated as merely a compliment dispensed (tho’ differently worded) to a lady out of courtesy or in recognition of a new gown or hat- he genuinely admired her.

They left even before the curtain had closed fully in order to avoid the busy stream of fellow theatregoers making the theatre’s passageways unpleasant to walk through.

Thankful she was walking beside him, he lowered he head somewhat in hopes his posture might conceal his cheeks from her view, which he was certain were glowing red from the private conversation he had held with himself in his head.

All the blushing and false boyish disavowal however soon was turned foul by the bitter taste of Memory: he was no teenage boy who could be forgiven harbouring such thoughts and private discussions of a lady’s beauty in his head, he was a man nearing fifty-six and a widower to boot.

A picture of the late Mrs Graves rose before his mind’s eye, the image of the healthy woman with round cheeks and soft, dark-blond hair he had sometimes enjoyed to run his fingers through, which was then gradually replaced by the sight of her in her last days, pale, emaciated, her eyes sunken and her hair coarse and greasy with sweat.

He had been away often and they had not been in love as protagonists of romantic stories were and often they had fought, threwn accusations at another when it had come to the question of their childlessness that had loomed over their marriage until Elizabeth had turned barren and thus once and for all ended their disagreement, but nevertheless, it had been a good marriage.

They had found agreeable companionship in another and occasionally shared an interest, which was more than could be said for many couples.

With her death, his amicable affection for Mrs Graves had prompted him to preserve her memory as any good Christian should, perhaps somewhat driven by a feeling of guilt for having done her ill with smarting words and unkind accusations when they had fought, and so far prevented him from shewing any interest in ladies of any kind.

Perhaps his years could be blamed also, he had not since the death of his wife shewn any interest exceeding a lingering, yet passing glance in appreciation of a fine figure or an ample bosom that was quickly forgotten in any woman, confusing him and making him feel somewhat ashamed even.

“How did you like it?”, he asked as Miss Spinckes, who was walking next to him.

“Do not ask a question you do not wish to receive an honest answer to”, Miss Spinckes cautioned him by prefacing her scalding review with the aforementioned words.

He was in agreement with everything she said and found himself laughing with her about the awful playing of some of the actors as they mounted the coach destined to drive them back to their respective rooms.

“I am reconciled with the play to a certain extent: it being a comedy, we have laughed- tho’ privately and not where Garrick would have intended us to”, he summed the evening up, wishing it to end in the positive.

“How diplomatically put- I cannot disagree, yet I would wish you would, should you desire to further our acquaintance, issue your invitations in a timelier manner.”

The coach came to a halt.

“Adieu, Admiral Graves.” She thanked him again for the invitation and was about to take the hand the coach-man provided her to ensure she could dismount safely when she extended her own to him, this time not in a movement intent on causing him pain and making a mockery of his rank by treating him like a common cabin-boy found to be misbehaving, but gently.

An instinctively extended gloved hand obviously intent to press his own reclining on his thigh in a surprisingly personal gesture of goodbye brushed the back of his hand before Miss Spinckes, obviously no longer considering her action correct, receded and left him with a renewed “farewell” and the lingering sensation of her fingers brushing the back of his hand that caused a distinctive warmth to rise in his cheeks and gave him much food for ruminations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The disastrous episode in Eton last November”: On 2nd November 1768, students at Eton put up a protest. To understand the situation, it’s important to know there were 12 masters tasked to keep 520 (teenage) boys in line. With a statistical 43.3 boys to oversee per master, there was no way they could keep an eye on every single one of their students at all times, a problem that was aggravated by the fact that many young gentlemen of the upper and upper middle classes scrunched their noses at their educators because they were not of equal social rank. On top of that, the headmaster was wildly unpopular.  
> This situation offered the ideal breeding-ground for a self-government of the student body to develop, which was largely run by the boys from the upper forms. With no one there to police them, they took matters into their own hands and when their authority was questioned- well: the rebellion in 1768 started when one of the prefects was flogged for supposedly overstepping his competences. The cause of the disagreement between the prefect and masters had been the question whether it fell to the prefects to sanction younger pupils for leaving the school premises without permission or not. The boys of the upper forms perceived the corporal punishment of one of their number on this matter as a pruning of what they perceived was one of their privileges or rights and soon the incident sparked an outrage that led approx. 160 boys primarily of the 5th and 6th form (that’s almost a third of the student body) to stage a communal walk-out in which the boys supposedly dumped their school books in the river and marched off to nearby Maidenhead where they spent the night getting drunk in the local drinking-establishments.  
> The very likely hung-over rebels either absconded (and often were sent straight back by their disapproving parents) or returned on their own accord with many of them being whipped as punishment in the aftermath.  
> There is evidence to suggest John Graves Simcoe, 16 at the time, was a participant and among those who were flogged afterwards. He never mentioned it again and letters exchanged between him and his friends are vague enough to lead some to suspect he might not have been present after all. However, he left Eton very shortly after the rebellion and one of his school friends later in life wrote a poem in honour of Simcoe in which he devotes an entire stanza to the rebellion and the corporal punishment they later received for their part in it. 
> 
> Rumour had it Margaret’s personal fortune before her marriage amounted to a whopping ₤30,000, a lot more than Samuel had. 
> 
> Grace O’Malley (Irish: Gráinne Ní Mháille, c. 1530-1603) was an Irish chieftain from the west of Ireland. Legend has it she learned to sail when she secretly snuck on her father’s ship because she wanted to accompany him on his travels (he traded with France and Spain) disguised as a boy, which meant she cut off her long hair, earning her the nickname “Gráinne Mhaol”- “bald Grace”. She famously fought back Queen Elizabeth I. attempts to take influence in the west of Ireland, until then mostly ignored by the English monarchs and turned to piracy. On two occasions, she met Elizabeth in person and they discussed politics in Latin. Her struggle to put a stop to the Tudor Conquest of Ireland earned her an afterlife as a symbol for Irish independence. There are many legends about her in circulation (like when she gave birth on a ship unassisted and then joined her crew in a fight against an attacking ship belonging to North African pirates), I can only recommend you to look into this fascinating woman!
> 
> A set of wigs: You really needed two at minimum- one to wear and one as a spare so one was always at hand when the other was being dressed and re-styled. Thanks to portraits of Samuel, I didn’t need to make this up- he had a receding hairline and at some point chopped his dark brown natural locks off in favour of wearing a wig. Whether that happened c. 1768 as Samuel claims in the story though is unclear.
> 
> Palomino is the grape variety most frequently used to produce sherry.
> 
> “Miss in Her Teens” by David Garrick was first performed in 1747.
> 
> Mourning: In Georgian times, mourning was not as ostentatious, prolonged and rigidly ritualised an affair as the Victorians, taking inspiration from their Queen, would make it- their attitude was vastly different. Society would not frown upon Samuel for taking a lover or re-marrying two years after the death of his wife, however he is free to honour her memory as he sees fit.


	4. Margaret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "...We were halfway there when the rain came down  
> Of a day-I-ay-I-ay  
> She asked me up to her flat downtown  
> Of a fine soft day-I-ay-I-ay..."
> 
> ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some super mild M-stuff towards the end. Just prefacing it as I don't think it merits a change in the rating (yet). 
> 
> Enjoy!

A carriage passed by below the window at great speed, causing the thundering sound of two sets of hooves against the cobbled street and the rattling of its wheels to wake Margaret from her thoughts, who had sat at her small writing-table below the window over a half-finished letter to a little niece, lost in a stream of thoughts she would perhaps have drowned in, had not the noise in the street called her back from her thoughts.

They had gone astray and turned toward the previous night, and Mr Graves. He was a rude man to be sure, his manners unpolished, for no gentleman would have called upon a lady on such a short notice.

She should have known his humble Irish origins had not only coloured his voice, but his manners also- for what could be ruder and more unrefined than an Irishman? At least he was not a papist, or else he would not hold the rank of rear-admiral.

His taste was as crude as his roots, it appeared to her, for why else would he have invited her to a comedy? Comedies were often morally questionable and always dull in that they commonly relied on cheap jokes and rude innuendo and there was nothing to be found in watching them save for the affirmation of one’s good taste when per (mis-)chance one had found one’s self in the audience of such a play and judged it offensive, loud and unrefined.

Tho’ she had no love for comedies and had found the previous night’s entertainment particularly awful, she could not say she had loathed the experience entirely- at least, to Graves’ credit, he had not liked it either and they had discussed together the reasons for their mutual verdict on the play.

All things considered, it had been almost amusing to watch his face contort in the agony of this peculiar variation of shame felt at watching others and self-loathing perhaps for having selected so inferior an entertainment.

Watching him so, she had almost pitied him, but then had decided to pretend not having seen a thing, for she feared he might be embarrassed were she to confront him on grounds of her observation.

The poor man- he had only meant to be civil, but in his attempt at civility made several critical errors, starting with the abrupt invitation and ending in his horrendous decision to go watch that blasted play.

The thought he had given it however remained admirable and touching almost- was this his way of expressing he was truly rueful for his behaviour towards her when first they met and only a day later had had a terrible disagreement?

The memory of her striking him returned to her and she recalled the feel of his cheek beneath her hand, smooth and plump, like a peach. A vile reptile, as she had considered him then, ought not feel almost pleasant to the touch, Margaret recalled thinking when she had lifted her hand a second time, partly to disprove her observation- what had she thought, that his left cheek would by black magic or devilish enchantment be different from the right and shew his true nature, cold and oozing slime?

Clearly, she had been carried away by the waves of rage and almost regretted having struck him- _almost_. In the moment she had done it, doing so had presented itself to her as a very reasonable action to resort to, befitting the insult he had dealt her, and she was no coward who would cringe in fear from the consequences of one’s actions, nor did she fear any man, save for God, upon whose judgement the fate of her soul would someday rely.

All things considered, Graves was no polished gentleman, but good at the heart, which was a rare quality indeed- despite his lack of manners which she found appalling, he also lacked the artificiality she had observed in some acquaintances who pretended to be what they were not, be it rich, desirable or learned, especially when in full view of the _bon ton_ in London or as at the present, in Bath.

Considering his attempt to express the vast extent of his genuine ruefulness, especially taking into account the very good seats he had managed to procure for them despite being fairly late, Margaret thought it would only be just if she would invite him, perhaps to walk, and afterwards to sup and through her invitation, she would gradually shew him how Things were done. By the end of the evening, through her accomplishment she would have reformed him (somewhat, at least) without him even noticing he had been.

A good challenge was always welcome; her little niece, tho’ largely an obedient child who took well to her books and was exceptionally bright for a girl her age, at times could be naughty in that she knew her own mind and occasionally spoke to her elders before choosing her words wisely.

A more memorable instance of childish unruliness that outshone the pettier moments of ill-chosen language and defiant refusal, she had been naughty by having disobeyed an order by her riding-master to go slowly and instead made her pony gallop at full speed, causing her to lose her posture and fall.

She was unhurt, but crying, and had destroyed a pretty petticoat which had torn at the knee. She had administered discipline by talking to Elizabeth like the rational person she hoped to form of the child and when the child had not complied to see her arguments, had shut her into her room without dinner or a candle for the evening to make her think of her disobedience.

It had been a little bad for her to do this, but it had to be done, lest she wanted to raise a wayward vixen. One day, Elizabeth would be thankful for having been disciplined when she would grow into a graceful, learned woman of Good Sense.

Setting about her plan, she put aside the letter intended for her niece and upon a new sheet of paper, formulated an invitation to Graves, asking him to come and meet her the following day. When the letter was sealed and the seal sufficiently dried, she immediately called for the girl to take it to one of the male servants working for the proprietor of her dwellings and deliver it in person.

For the following two hours, Margaret was uncertain whether she had triumphed or not, a fact more vexing to her even than a little dunce dressed in the latest Paris fashions with only a mind to talk about handsome officers and forcing the company into discussing her billets-doux at a card game.

She paced, she leant from her window observing the street until the January chill convinced her of the prudence of a retreat, unless she should wish herself taking to bed with the ague or a severe cold the next morning, she impatiently busied herself finishing the letter she had begun- but alas, the knave did not return with her answer.

At least the letter-business was settled now; she had not only completed her note to Elizabeth praising her for her zealousness and good behaviour, of which she had received a detailed report from the governess, but also to her mother and the aforementioned Miss Smith, whom she wished to include more drawing-lessons in Elizabeth’s school-room hours, for it was evident a talent such as hers should be encouraged.

At last, the boy returned and carried with him Graves’ answer (the little rat possibly made a detour to less savoury parts of town where boys of inconsequential birth would go to drink badly watered-down ale at a cheap price).

It was a written one, reconciling Margaret in part with the duration of the excursion, as the Admiral would have had to sit down and write it immediately, nd had done so in a neat hand, albeit only so due to the person writing having put great effort in the immaculate execution of each letter, indicating his hand was not as per usual so tidy; it was more than evident he had striven to write a pretty letter, both with regards to the words and its appearance.

Approving greatly of his letter and the expression of his delight to walk with her, her spirits rose considerably until they soared, eaglet-like, over the heights of Triumph, surveying the adjoining realms of Contentedness and Elation from thence.

In such an exceptionally good mood, she chose to visit the Pump-Room to fully exert the healthy properties of Bath’s water for her constitution and from there went to visit her friend, Mrs Aldershot, who had been present at Braithwaite’s dinner, as they had agreed to do some days ago. She bore no great ire in her heart anymore regarding the unfortunate discussion that had taken place there- she, as well as they bore a measure of fault in the event- they for their ignorance and she for her mode of addressing them- perhaps she should have talked to them with the same longanimity she employed when speaking to her little ward instead of supposing that they, who were comfortably placed and in particular the gentlemen among their number, would immediately understand the dreadful forlornness of the situation of a girl of far lesser birth, and by said birth condemned to a miserable life while they were feasting on venison and beef.

The taking of the water she, despite having found a spot to be seated in (however much too close to the band for her liking) executed in her usual hurried manner which was only slowed by a few moments of tarrying in order to spot anyone of Consequence among the crowd; dissatisfied with the noise, the stale taste of the abhorrent water and the lack of anyone remotely acceptable to converse with in her immediate vicinity, she left to find Mrs Aldershot at home, already well-prepared for their outing wearing her new black calash bonnet to preserve her hair.

The vista of Mrs Aldershot so dressed sparked in Margaret a sense of approving affability, for Mrs Aldershot had enquired after hers a while ago and evidently order’d one fashioned exactly after it, only that hers was, by Margaret’s quick estimation, less costly, not made of silk and counted less ornamentation, which she greatly approved of, seeing as her own sat proudly on top of her head to keep her coiffure from suffering their little walk to the coffee house.

“And you really invited Mr Graves?”, Mrs Aldershot wanted to know, leaning somewhat across the table in order to forego speaking too loudly in the company of others.

“Yes”, Margaret answered affirmatively, “he is not half as bad as he presented himself to me initially.”

“You are not going to tell me you like him-“ her friend giggled girlishly, which Margaret found detestable.

“Of course not”, she said and glared at the woman across the table and took a minute mouthful of sweetened coffee.

“Why, but you are quite pleased to _see_ him rather frequently, is it not so?”

“I would hardly say a few days of deepening a formerly passing acquaintance can be called that”, she dismissed her friend’s teasing, “besides, if I, as you insinuate, would want a man, I would be wed already; ‘tis not that I lacked suitors in the past.”

Mrs Aldershot could not argue with that; all her life, she had remained unwed and taken pride in the appellation _Miss_ , for she had not bowed to any man, had never debased herself to become a helpmeet and worse, financial asset to somebody else. And when her dear sister, with whom she had been very close all her life, had died in childbed before her eyes, the horrific experience had only reinforced her previous firm conviction that marriage was nothing but a sentence to either unhappiness or worse, death.

“Anyway”, Mrs Aldershot gracefully veered away from the subject she realised would only prove the seed of discord between two friends if pursued further, “it is always pleasant to have a new friend, is it not?”

“It undoubtedly is”, Margaret replied and emptied her cup, intent on leaving soon.

The next morning, a bright but cold winter morning sun, flanked by a flock of clouds shone gaily into Margaret’s bedroom window when the girl pulled the heavy curtains back to allow the young daylight in.

She had the night before fallen asleep early and so was quite refreshed when she in triumphant spirits readied herself for the day to come.

The day was acceptable enough for a walk, she found, if dressed in such a manner enough cloathing would prevent the cold from creeping into loose sleeves or beneath a billowing skirt hem.

Graves was punctual, and dressed in walking-attire, a fine suit indeed. He had his hat pull’d somewhat into his face to shield it from a slight wind that had picked up and that pulled unpleasantly on her bonnet as well, making her wonder if perhaps she ought to be brave and put it down, on pains of having nothing to cover her head and also have her coiffure ruined.

Her hand firmly pulling at the ribbon holding her bonnet in place like a sailor clinging on to a rope in a storm trying to tame the might of a sail come loose, they walked silently for a while until they reached Parade Gardens, which looked not as picturesque as it would come spring, drab and grey, with the bare trees stretching their skeletal limbs heavenwards making for a rather wretched scenery.

Beside them, there were not many other people in the Gardens; at one point, they passed a nurse or governess bringing to the fresh air two small children, a boy and girl aged about two to three, the girl a little older than the boy, and a few young gentlemen in a flock of five, whose mischievous miens told her she would not like to be anywhere near them once the foolery they doubtlessly were about to commit was done.

Slowly, despite her great efforts, the wintry chill started to conquer her with her toes feeling numb and her gloved fingers tingling unpleasantly with chilly needle-pricks. It was not so bad on the hand that had rested on Graves’ arm, but the other itched most unpleasantly.

To add to the inconvenience, a persistent drizzle that precariously bordered on an insistent rainfall started to fall from the heavens, causing them to seek shelter under the branches of a yet leafless tree that at least protected them from a fraction of the unpleasant surprize from above.

For a short while they waited in the hostile wind and rain standing side by side under the tree in the park with no prospect of escape in sight. Why had the weather have to take a turn for the worse? It had been fairly pleasant in the morning, but now her day was quite ruined by’t. A thoroughly miserable afternoon, Margaret frowned but said nothing, wishing herself in either a hot bath or her bed, tucked up and warm.

Graves (who looked just as miserable as she, if not a little more so for his wig started to suffer from the humidity) noticed she did not like their present situation at all and proceeded to smile at her.

Awaiting him to regale her with tales of his adventurous days at sea she was not very interested in hearing in which he would describe to her almost freezing to death while wet to the bone and steering the ship through a tumultuous storm with his hands tied to the wheel so he would not be blown or swept away, she was quite surprised when no such remark was made.

“I am horribly cold, Miss Spinckes”, he announced and huddled slightly closer to her to accentuate his complaint against the weather, “I hope you are not cross with me if I should propose to you returning to a somewhat warmer clime, that is to say, somewhere with a fire.”

“I agree”, she nodded and upon her own suggestion, they went to her rooms as they were fairly close and it brought her within the reach of the sweet Phantasy of her bed or a warm bath scented with lavender oil, which she would surely have once he was gone.

For it being unseemly to enter with a gentleman in attendance, she went up first, then told him, it being close to five in the afternoon, to come to her rooms in a few minutes when the church-bell would ring what would be known to him as _two bells of the first dog watch_.

A smile intended to cover up the seriousness with which he viewed their situation made his eyes sparkle roguishly, but in an almost endearing manner and he commended her on her naval knowledge approvingly before she climbed the staircase and he soon followed suit.

Her rooms were of ideal size for cool winter days, for they were not too grand to not heat up despite a fire being lit and not too small and heat so intensely one would almost drop dead from a fit of ague brought on by the temperature.

They quickly rid themselves of their unpleasantly wet coats to sit by the drawing room fire, Margaret on the sopha in order to afford her skirts and paniers the room they needed to dispread the fabric of her new petticoat in such a manner the tasteful pattern and trimmings were displayed to the greatest advantage, Graves in a chair pull’d closer to the fire by a servant.

“Frightful weather”, Admiral Graves complained as he was led into the drawing-room and heaved a sigh of great relief upon espying and consequentially seating himself in the chair by the fireside.

For a short while, they did not speak and delighted in the fact that no chilblains or fevers could attack them now, rescued from the cold and warmed by the golden glow of a well-kept fire.

Wine was brought in to warm from the inside where the fire could not reach cold flesh with Graves proposing a toast to their misadventure in a jesting fashion. He was quite reconciled with everything, it appeared, and Margaret was inclined to think so, too.

She was home and relatively dry now and Graves, tho’ not always the consummate gentleman, was a kind and tolerably entertaining guest- last time he had paid her a visit, she had found herself well-entertained, in retrospective at least when her initial anger had waned.

Thus, she bade him speak a little of himself, inclined to listen a little to the tales of the pastoral scenes of his rustic youth, or of his godson or the like for a while.

He spoke for a little while, ever attentive not to annoy or bore, which was evident from his right hand toying nervously with a button on his waistcoat while he talked. Margaret half-feared it would fall off if he'd continue pulling and twisting it for so much as a minute more.

The art of conversing with skill was one not easily mastered by everyone (especially when they had not been subjected to instruction early in life), and while he would never become a court favourite for his witticisms, there was a pleasant originality in his manner of speaking and the eagerness with which he tried to please his audience.

Feeling obliged to repay in kind, Margaret took the lead from him when he had ended and divulged a few amusing tales of her own, mostly of little Elizabeth doing things unexpected of a small child, how she talked like a person of sixty, not six and liked to ask questions of such profound philosophical qualities it was often hard for her and the governess to answer right away and the like.

He proceeded to politely say what an intelligent child her niece was and spoke again of his various nieces and nephews, of which Margaret found it hard to keep count; there must have been enough to man an entire ship. Graves spoke of some of his former shipmates and friends in the Navy, too, among them his godson’s father, who apparently had trained Mr Cook, of whom one had heard for his daunting venture, in the art of sailing and would have had more Greatness and great Fame ahead of him had he not died prematurely.

Surprisingly, he claimed none of the Fame and Greatness for himself, nor did he lay claim to any of it; altho’ it was obvious he was prideful in the way all men in uniform were, shewing his lace and cockade like a peacock flaunts his wheel of feathers, he did not seem interested in greatness of any kind.

Graves was by no means a famous man, but one would have thought that a Hero of Quiberon Bay would consider himself more entitled to the gratitude of his countrymen than he, who would only shrug when asked about his service, called it his duty and said he saw reason and usefulness in his work and had been fortunate enough to have embarked upon a path in life that suited him; he quite simply liked the sea and sailing a lot.

All things considered, he was a very plain person who some, like her friend Mrs Aldershot, might call very dull without any remarkable defining traits to his name; he was as according to his own words, not exceptional in any field; he played at cards for recreational purposes, won at times even, but was no card-smart; he enjoyed riding well enough, but was not horse-mad; he read what the press produced, but was no political man, save for his belief in his service for his country.

She could have expanded her list with ease, for there was not much about him that could not be commented on in the same manner, but tired soon of it.

Still, Margaret came to the result she did not find him as dull as she ought- he had none of the quick-wittedness of her friends, which she so often found amusing or even opinions she shared and yet there was no denying she enjoyed his company. If she had liked, she could have sent him away to spend the night either alone in the bath she had earlier craved or go out and find somebody else more entertaining than a man who had, monk-like, devoted his life to the heavy toil that was sailing the sea and taking care of his nieces, nephews and godchildren.

For a while, he spoke with pride of his seamanship but for the most time excessively belaboured the quiet country life he led and when he had finally ended, visibly looking for her approval, turned to her with an expectant look.

How could he suppose she was interested in all that? And how could he content himself with so little? Tending to his house in Devonshire and managing his estate and tenants was a very quiet, very solitary life. If he liked it so much, his solitary sunsets in the Blackdown Hills, then why had he come to Bath? No, he was looking for persons to dwell among, for loudness and laughter, not the hollow echoes of his hilly Devonshire.

He was a man, a widower, who had grown acquainted to the quietness of bereavement and was only gingerly starting to fight the silence with sound- she knew it only too well.

At first, during that horrible fall and winter six years ago, she had always thought she'd heard her sister going up the stairs, or calling from her room to the maid even when she was all alone at Aldwinckle with her poor, dead sister's little namesake sleeping in her arms, but it had all been fanciful tricks of the mind. After a time, she had come to accept Elizabeth was no more, no more would she find her walking through the house or sitting at the table in the evening, no more would she help her do her hair, as older sisters did, no more would they share a private laugh no-one else could comprehend the reason of.

Slowly, she had adjusted to her loss, to the Emptiness where once had been a person and arranged her life around it. It must have seemed like a satisfactory mode of living with her mother and little Elizabeth at Aldwinckle, visiting friends and attending social events once she had put away her mourning-attire and watched her little orphaned niece, who was totally unaware of the fact Death followed her tiny person as a dog does a hare grow- it was a good life, but something, someone very important had been missing, and the silent crescendo of Elizabeth not being there anymore ringing in her ears could not have been drowned out even if she had sat amidst the orchestra during an opera performance.

Six years later, she could stand by't without shame. The little girl who looked very much like her mother was a great comforter, as was Time. Graves had not reached this half-way house on the road to new happiness- not yet. She read it in his eyes when he spoke of his life how every scene he described had originally contained two figures where now stood only one- but even _à deux_ it was a most boring way of living, she ruled.

Since she thought them not well acquainted enough to address her suspicion regarding his feeling of loss and had no desire to cause him pain or embarrassment, she decided to overlook her observation and make it look to him as if she only dispproved of his mode of living in general.

When she told him bluntly what she thought of his mode of living in plain English, as she was no friend of euphemisms, he replied in an affronted manner: “You offend me.”

“I merely tell the truth. Your tales of counting cattle and roof-fixings are infernally and almost infuriatingly boring. You are supposed to make conversation with me, not to lure me to premature eternal sleep.”

One could have expressed the same with greater diplomatic care- but she had chosen not to. Instead, she enjoyed watching him grow somewhat angry with her and prepared herself for the salves that would be exchanged next, now that their heavy artillery was positioned, aimed, loaded and ready to fire.

“You are as ‘infuriating’ as you suppose I am, have you ever been told?”

Both rose to their feet in a similar manner as they had during their first meeting alone and Margaret had half a mind to strike him again- but Graves was faster than she and addressed her as if he had red her mind, his voice soft, but barbed with a threatening growl:

“Do not think on striking me again, I should not like suffering maltreatment twice at the same hand.”

His face during their exchange remained unreadable; there was an angry hardness around the lines of his mouth, but a softness in his dark eyes, a contradictive contrast almost as stark as that between his humble origins and his rank.

Her hand, which had half-hovered between them in indecisive hesitance, as if of its own volition, rose, but not in the sharp snake-like attacking-motion used to strike, slowly. Without giving it any further thought, Margaret observed her hand rising ever higher and forward, until it touched the skin of his cheek, pressing against it, as if trying to mock Graves for believing she would attempt hitting him a second time.

Graves didn’t pull away- he stood and watched, a little in disbelief for the fraction of an instant before he took a step closer to her and bowed his head-

What followed came as a compleat surprize to Margaret- he drew closer, until there was no more space left between their faces, and pressed his lips against hers.

He exerted soft pressure, which she reciprocated without thinking; Margaret had been kiss’d before, had as a young woman indulged in the attention of men as every young girl did to some degree, but this kiss was unlike the ones she had tasted before.

This was not the unskilled kiss of a country-boy first come to London with a tongue like a writhing eel, an experience Margaret had, despite having wished for it since the day the unfortunate occurrence had come to pass in the spring of fourty-two, never forgotten (aforementioned country lad had been one of her less impressive acquaintances, and after the said clumsy interaction, she had not sought his company anymore) or that of the skilled rogue, whose kiss was intoxicating and practiced, but devoid of genuine Emotion, as it had been perfected on a host of other girls and women and whose hands had to be watched at all times, for they all too greedily liked to slip beneath a skirt or below a neckline, feeling and touching with explorative entitlement.

No, Graves’ was not like that- he was careful, using his lips only, one might almost have called him shy had he not exhibited gentlemanly skilfulness and reverence in the way he forced her not by dragging her toward him, as some would, possessive and overbearing; he waited, aware his advance was bold, for her approval.

By the way she leaned into the interaction, toward him with her neck craning somewhat upwards (for he was quite tall) she was certain he was reassured she was quite approving-

In the same instant, her mind, previously not entirely aware of what she was doing came to full consciousness again with the speed and impact of a horse halted abruptly from mid-gallop.

Instinctively, Margaret pulled away and Graves did too, leaving them both quite embarrassed.

“You should not have done that”, she at last managed to say, but could not bring herself to scold him as she knew she should have.

“I should not have”, Graves nodded and cast his eyes to where his stomach obscured his shoe-buckles from his view.

“Miss Spinckes, I bid you goodnight. I fear I cannot stay.”

Before she could say another word, he was gone, had called for the girl to fetch his coat and left. Instantly as the door fell shut with a thud that resounded throughout her rooms, Margaret sank into the chair he had vacated and called for the girl, telling her no matter how late it was, she should fetch help and make water ready for a bath.

As she was finally sitting in it, she sent the servants away to be alone and think, encircling her lower legs with her arms.

She should never have allowed that. She should never have allowed Samuel Graves of all people to do something so rudely intimate- they were still strangers almost after all, and his inability to restrain the unbounded wildness of his personality only proved to her again his rather Irish temperament.

She should never have allowed it and he should never have done what he had done. They were both past the age of blushing tenderness and billets-doux and flirtatious experiments. Had she not extended the invitation first?

The moment of kissing had lasted for only a few instants, mere seconds and nothing more forward than a kiss on the lips, almost polite in its manner, had been exchanged.

At re-examining the kiss in retrospective contemplation, Margaret detected a traitorous part of her mind wishing it had gone further than it had, wishing for the kiss to have deepened instead of ended, for her hands to have framed his face and angled him to her pleasure while giving in to his hands around her waist-

Red-hot excitement rose from her stomach and spread to her chest, setting her heart to beat at new rhythm and making her breasts tingle with a sensation akin to a pleasurable itch as the imaginary scene proceeded.

She liked the idea of his large hands being as rough with her as she was to him with her tone and cutting remarks, of being pushed to fall back against the sopha, still unyielding in what appeared to be in her phantasy a game which they both understood without having discussed it. His heavy breath fell to her neck, hot and impatient, heaving with the same Emotion that moved her own ribcage, and was from thence downward bound, towards where her flesh ended and the front of her gown began as one hand had conquered her petticoats and moved below it, past her garters-

 _No._ Alone in her room, seated in the slowly cooling waters of the tub, Margaret opened her eyes and drew in a hearty lungful of the lavender-scented air.

She had allowed herself to fall back, her head, her wet hair wrapp’d up in a towel hanging over the end of the tub and her legs slightly open with her feet pressing against the opposite end, knees bent due to the smallness of it.

Absentmindedly, her right hand had travelled south, and suddenly conscious of where it had gone, Margaret pulled her arm away, fighting embarrassment as her fingers retreated from between her legs.

These thoughts, she ruled in an attempt to fight the embarrassment that did by no means dissipate the torturously delicious feeling her imagination had brought on, were nought but fancies of the basest sort. Everyone, Man, Woman, and Beast, knew these intense jolts of delight, of sensual desire, be it the stallion led to mount the broodmare, a lad thinking of his beloved’s physical charms or a girl hiding from her parents _The School of Venus_ or a similar publication read only when alone and in bed, one hand at all times under the covers.

Such emotions were nothing except proof that one was a living being of flesh and blood.

And yet, the causer of what she felt remained puzzling. Graves was no attractive man, no seductive Italian beau, he was as dry as the planks of his ship on a hot and windless day in the West Indies and about as interesting.

-However, had she not been moved beyond mere physical response to an intuition in which all living creatures were united when he had kissed her?

Had she not briefly remarked upon the long, dark eyelashes behind which lay two brown eyes that despite belonging to a battle-hardened sailor, always appeared to spark a soft kindness one would not have immediately associated with a man of his rank and experiences?

Had she not remark’d upon his smell, too, clean with a hint of cologne and wig powder? Had she not (again!) remarked upon and enjoyed the softness of his shaven cheek under her palm?

And had he, with his eyes closed in what seemed to be a gesture of reverent admiration, his lids shut while kissing like a child sending an imploring prayer to the Heavens, evidently shewn an enjoyment in the affair that exceeded mere physical attraction, too?

No, it couldn’t be _like that_ , could it? She liked him well enough to not find his company insufferable, yes, and he evidently thought very similarly about her, but he was a poor old widower and she an unwed lady of middling age, who had in the past enjoyed passing flirtations that had become fewer with the progress of time as younger women had grown from little girls into more youthful embodiments of beauty and charm around her.

No, to think so was very shallow and made them both look quite desperate, which he was not and she most definitively was not either.

At last she went to bed very late or very early in the day, however one preferred to view it, without having found a satisfactory explanation to any of her questions and remained quite restless for the remainder of the night as her thoughts wound and wrought themselves around each other, intertwined and separated again until they had formed a knot so tight in her belly she could feel it with every movement of her body, pulling at the taut strings of her muscles and weighing heavily on her mind.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Margaret didn’t like silly comedies too much. Whether she liked Garrick I don’t know, but in later years she absolutely disliked Sheridan’s plays for the same reasons she dislikes Garrick’s in the story. She must have been very picky with her entertainments; one was not fond of German plays either because German sounds rude. Some stereotypes are surprisingly old and surprisingly persistent.  
> …Das stimmt übrigens gar nicht! ;)
> 
> Margaret was strict with Elizabeth, to the point her best friend as a teen was afraid of her. Thanks to said best friend, Mary Anne Burges, we know from a letter in reply to one of Elizabeth’s in which she describes being at a loss how to handle her constantly naughty toddler daughter that she was surprised Sophia turned out this way because Elizabeth was trying to raise her children so different from what Margaret Graves had been like with the pair of them whenever she had been over on a visit. Yes, Elizabeth will grow into a “graceful, learned lady of Good Sense”- but she’ll have the Good Sense not to be like her auntie. Sorry, Margaret.  
> By the way, the accident is totally made up, but Elizabeth loved riding from an early age on and later particularly enjoyed jumping and racing her horses- it would at least fit her character to try full speed on a Shetland pony.  
> Elizabeth’s governess’ name really was Miss Smith. 
> 
> A calash bonnet is a bonnet that works and looks pretty much like the foldable roof of a convertible- or in 18th century terms a calèche, a type of carriage (hence the anglicised name). It became fashionable around the mid-1760s and endured well into the 19th century because it was practical for travelling and bad weather. Unlike a hat, it would not weigh down on and destroy the wearer’s coiffure, which given the enormous hairstyles of the second half of the 18th century, was a huge asset. The bonnet had a ribbon or ribbons used to pull it up and over the head. On some, it’s a loop of ribbon fastened at the top (somewhat to the side though so it doesn’t dangle in front of the wearer’s face) and at the bottom, or only fastened at the top, or hoodie-like one or either side. The ribbons could, their practical use aside, be used by ladies to have something to annoyingly twiddle with, much like one today might fiddle with an elastic hair tie or play with a strand of hair. 
> 
> Unmarried women were out of respect addressed as “Mrs” from a certain age on, especially when they managed their own affairs, i.e. lived independently. I don’t know if Margaret truly preferred to be “Ms Spinckes” as it is recorded nowhere that I know of, but it would suit her strong principles, which is why she does in the story. 
> 
> Two bells of the first dog watch: 5 PM in navally correct and period- appropriate terms.
> 
> Elizabeth very likely was a bit like her fictionalised counterpart Margaret describes in the story as throughout her childhood, she had very few playfellows her age and was predominantly around adults who doted on her.
> 
> "enough to man an entire ship": in true Godfather-style “A man who doesn't spend time with his family can never be a real man.” Samuel would have subscribed to this 100% and in 1775 tried to have all subordinate officers on his flag ship HMS Preston (so directly reporting to him only) to be nephews of his. No wonder he was disliked by many- he tried to give out all the best posts to his brothers' boys. But then, the boys stuck up for their nepotistic uncle, too- as revenge is a dish that tastes best when served cold, when Samuel lost a street brawl (accounts vary between one or two black eyes plus his sword was broken in half) Samuel Jr. and Thomas, took action by waylaying the gentleman on at least two occasions- one of them even tried to lure him to some very quiet corner of the harbour, alone... Moral of the story: don't mess with the Family. 
> 
> “The School of Venus or The Ladies Delight”: originally published in France in 1680 under the title “L'École des filles ou la Philosophie des dames” is a pornographic piece of literature of the (pseudo-) educational genre. It’s written as a dialogue between the cousins Frances (“Frank”) and Katherine (“Katy”) in which the sexually active Frances first explains sex and the anatomy of male and female reproductive organs to her inexperienced but curious cousin. The latter, equipped with Frank’s advice, later gives an account of her first time and subsequent relationship with a certain Mr Rogers. Other topics include how socially acceptable it is to meet a person one is not married to just for sex, how to make your husband believe your lover’s kid is his and sex toys.  
> What makes it even less suitable reading material for well-bred young ladies are the explicit illustrations and very explicit language.


	5. Samuel

How could he have been such a fool? Stupid, stupid man. Had any of the lads acted like that and told him, the young Graves in question would have been corrected immediately by a cuff around the ear and the good counsel to act more gentlemanly next time- it was none of his business what his godson and nephews did in Covent Garden and other places like that nor did he want to know, but he’d not tolerate them treat a lady or any honest woman for that matter, thusly.

He’d enjoyed it, that was the worst part of it and while his Conscience dictated remorsefulness, he could not say he felt it. On the contrary, he had caught himself savouring the moment and enjoying it greatly- the triumph of having shut her up had mixed with a most curious sort of elation he had not felt in a long time.

Many years ago, when he and Mrs Graves had been wed, he’d felt similarly whenever he kissed her or took her to bed, but when the novelty of their union had subsided, the flame had died to lowly-glowing embers at best. There hadn’t been much in ways of adoring rapture he had felt when they’d gone to bed together; they had not made love, but striven to make a child, which was a wholly different thing altogether.

There was no attraction, no worship or love of the other needed for the latter operation and while they had both been fond of each other, he could not claim they had ever been deeply in love, especially not during those trying years when their childlessness had stood between them like an irritating, uninvited house-guest.

When they had shared a bed, it had been acts of efficiency after taking whatever draught a fashionable London doctor had prescribed and arranging in whatever pose had been recommended discreetly by more successful couples and on one occasion even a whore.

Sometimes, he hadn’t even thought of her because the guilt he felt had threatened to encumber his ability to perform; instead, he’d turned his thoughts elsewhere, to the ample bosom of a Portsmouth whore he’d remarked upon last time at the harbour or an etching of Boucher’s _Leda_.

Mrs Graves, Samuel was certain, had done the same.

Whether they’d done it dog- or spoon-fashion, after taking foul-tasting medicine or following a period of dining solely on foods increasing the possibility of a pregnancy, he’d left her most times after one or two bouts, feeling exhausted and a little ashamed of himself.

He perfectly recalled the look she had given him always, one of unspoken words of pain, sadness and anger whenever he had risen from her bed, pulled his night shirt down and slipped in his banyan to leave after breathing a flighty kiss on her lips, because he felt that he ought to do so and the memory, he was sure, would haunt him until he would lie on his own deathbed.

That she had died before him had been a cruel trick of Fate- at least they’d had the few years when it had been certain she was too old to bear children, and they had been able to be friends again.

She had made her anger and accusations against him felt also, insinuated that it was he who, tho’ able to do the deed, was at fault; that among a bunch of eggs there was always a rotten one, and one only had to look at his brothers to find out who it was with the Graves’ of Magherafelt.

Those days had been terrible; they had both wanted it very much, but never succeeded and in the process hurt each other very badly, and of the guilt, he was certain, he had to bear the greater part.

Often he had expressed how sorry he was, but knew despite her assurances of indifference, Elizabeth Graves had been hurt so deeply he could never fully make amends for it, not in this world at least.

During those last years together, he had rarely touched her and when he had, he had made certain it was to her liking foremost and held her afterwards as he should have in younger years.  

His salad days over, he had not shewn much interest in women at all; he found many of them very pretty and pleasing to the eye, but seldom had he felt more than passing admiration for them before forgetting the sight he had found so pleasing soon after.

The whoring and seducing he left to the young; he had in his youth participated enow in the sport to know and appreciate it for the sweet sides of it, but had grown old enough with age to know there was more beauty on this earth to be found than that of a woman’s face; a sundown in the hills, the vast expanse of the ocean, blue and placid, gently rocking the ship- such was a different kind of pleasure, tho’ more profound and doubtlessly less fleeting.

Nobody would of course expect a man some two years widowed to practice celibacy (and he had not, having on a few, somewhat shameful and very rare occasions paid in London or Bath for an hour in a Cyprian’s bed), but he felt the abstinence did not hurt him nor did it truly matter to him; he had spent several months at sea at a time from a young age on and was accustomed to it. While some men would go mad and stagger first thing to the next port’s closest brothel on their first shore leave after a long period at sea, he would not. There were also other men, the so-called _buggerantos_ , of which there always were a handful on each ship, but their existence remained, for the safety of all parties, unspoken. Instead of seeing them court-martialled and punished as according to article 28, he had preferred to turn a blind eye always, as losing a man was, however distasteful his inclinations, more hurtful to the ship than what he had seen two men doing below deck in the darkness.

Perhaps he was just no hot-headed man or had learned to practice restraint effectively, but it was seldom he had felt the primal fire of lust and desire; therefore it struck him as particularly noteworthy that such feelings were elicited by kissing Miss Spinckes, who arguably was, her deep care for her niece aside, which he identified as the only redeeming quality in her character, one of the worst specimens of the Sex.

Miss Spinckes was the kind of old spinster who invited people’s jests; with her, it was clear why she was not married, nobody would want to get himself a she-dragon to run the house; she was sanctimonious in the extreme and cast herself as the leading actress in a tragic play in which she was the last embodiment of True Virtue, manners and morality among savages when in truth she was the rudest of them all.

When she opened her mouth, it was mostly to spit either fire or venom. Her tongue was sharper than any blade he had ever held in his hands and she enjoyed using it very much, especially when her remarks witty were made at the cost of others.

She was an infuriating woman- and yet, he felt a bubbling excitement rise in his heart when he thought of their kiss, how he had kissed her and she had leaned in to savour the moment fully before pulling away because Prudence and Propriety demanded it.

The pretty little sigh she had breathed on his retreating lips, somewhat confused at what they had done, would forever remain etched onto his memory, as would the elation of triumph of finally having made her hold her tongue, if only for a moment.

In his phantasy, she would have opened her mouth to encourage him, and he would have subdued the usually so witty tongue in a long kiss to make her quite breathless before they would have retired to her bedchamber, where they could have continued their argument and fight in a very different manner.

He desired her, he could not deny it. He had kissed her in the most chastely fashion upon an impulse, but with her it was like with a glass of decent brandy: a glass might prove invigorating and taste fine, but it makes one yearn for the whole bottle.

Why of all people was it Margaret Spinckes he wanted so badly? Why did he want her at all? Was not his life satisfactorily fill’d with duties, obligations and some more pleasant activities?

In Devonshire, he had his house and tenants to maintain and take care of, the Navy would frequently call on him (tho’ he had for a long time not been at sea) and not to be neglected were his duties to his family and godsons, who were sixteen, nearing seventeen and ten respectively.

And then there were his friends and acquaintances who required his presence at their houses or at the Honiton playhouse with them, whose invitations he would return.

The life of a country squire and sea-officer was one of days fill’d satisfactorily; enough to do without being threatened to succumb to the vice of slothfulness, with still enough time to devote to his interests and maintaining his correspondence.

He was not lonely or desperate to find a woman, had not been for full two years, so why was it that the infernal Spinckes-woman confused him so?

When Mrs Graves had died, he had mourned her in earnest; she had been a spring-day personified, mild in manner and mien (in publick at all times; in private, she had shewn her fighting side to him, that of a lioness who did not like to be wrong’d, but contrary to Miss Spinckes, she would never have dared to behave so rudely in company), gentle and good.

She gave money to the poor, helped furnish the school at Dunkeswell and had been a reliable and loyal friend.

In the days and weeks following her death, he had found the table too empty, wishing her here with him, but had over time begun to adjust to the life of a widower. He had missed her company, having grown accustomed to it and had felt her absence more strongly than he had during her lifetime valued her presence.

The loss of Mrs Graves had shaken him up somewhat and caused him to wish he could have her back, which of course would, could never be.

At times, when he had lain in bed alone as he did presently, he had even wished for her warm body to share the blankets with him, to hold the familiar form close to his chest and do nothing more, despite all the foul memories he had of doing so and the guilty shame whenever he thought of the times he had shared Mrs Graves' bed.

Forlornly, his left arm had acted upon this thought and pressed nothing but air and the blanket close. It was cold, so very cold, and he was alone, more alone than he had felt being in two years.

Perhaps the only thing he truly liked about Miss Spinckes was that she was a woman who had given him more attention than he was accustomed to; as he was not searching for a new wife, and hadn’t been these past two years, he had hardly engaged in flirtation at all, wherefore it was not surprising time spent with a woman in the ways he had spent time with Margaret Spinckes had been rather scarce.

Could he trust himself, his feelings? Was it not just the fact that his mind sought an opportunity to replace the late Mrs Graves’ female attentions with that of the only woman in two years he had started to develop a fondness for?

Miss Spinckes and Mrs Graves were so unlike the other that any man in the right mind and forced to chuse between the two would pick Mrs Graves, who had been as pleasant a member of the Sex as could be imagined, whereas Miss Spinckes was, and to speak so was very kind, as pleasant a person as going to bed and finding one’s cushion replaced with a hedgehog.

-If, hypothetically speaking, he were to go to Miss Spinckes, tell her what he had not yet thought out, and she were to accept his friendship, which he could not hope for, where would they go from thence?

He cared too much for her to make her his mistress, and what he wanted of her was not _that_ anyway.

There had been much enjoyment for him in being with her, spending the day together even though their walk had been marred by rainfall. The day had made him very happy, so happy he had been bold enough to crown it with the kiss, and she hadn’t been unhappy, either.

There was a dance some two nights away, held by an acquaintance of Importance, a certain Sir S—, and he was fairly confident he would be granted an invitation for himself and a friend if only he asked.

Sir S— shewed himself much surpriz’d, knowing he was not usually a man who enjoyed dancing, but was willing to let him come.

Miss Spinckes would be delighted.

And indeed, she was, for when his boy brought her the news in a letter, she immediatly returned it.

Needless to say Miss Spinckes looked _ravissante_ in a gown he had not seen on her before and with jewels around her cream-coloured neck that sparkled in the light.

No word was spoken of the kiss, and her greeting, just like his, was a shy one.

The evening itself was not very memorable; dancing was had, Miss Spinckes danced a few dances whereas he, not intent to embarrass himself, waited until she had had enough and saved her a seat by his side, and they talked while observing the couples, speaking about them and pointing certain members of the ton out to another for various reasons.

Thus the night progressed; wine was had, in part to forget about the embarassment the kiss had caused both of them, spirits rose and upon a whim with his resolve encouraged by drink, he led Miss Spinckes, who was following him with eager willingness, to an adjoining small sitting room, in which they were alone; a few doors down, a card-party proved enjoyment for all those who did not want to dance, and so everyone, save for themselves were occupied and would not see them.

The muffled sound of the music followed them as they progressed down the hallway, to a smaller parlour in Sir S—‘s house Samuel had visited before, when he and Sir S— had been alone, and in the day-time; not even a servant was there to overhear their footsteps or the soft creak of the door when he let Miss Spinckes inside.

He clos’d the door with Great Care, not allowing it to sound in any way as it shut behind them. The room was dimly-lit, as if Sir S— had half-expected some guests to retire to more quiet quarters, perhaps to seal a business-agreement or talk _en privé_ , but surely he had not thought about an encounter of this sort in his home.

There she stood before him, proud as a statue of marble, with skin of a fine colour and features so advantageously put to display by her jewels and immaculately-done hair that not even Bernini could have carv’d a finer face into the finest Italian marble.

She was beautiful beyond compare. The light, as it fell on her hair, added a glittering effect like frost in the sunlight, caused by a few grey hairs that hid themselves beneath the dark brown of her locks- there was no aspect of her one could not have praised, and he was certain it was not the drink that had confused his senses somewhat, it was She Who Was Standing Before Him.

Her pretty lips needed no vermillion to tint them in the hue of love; her perfect, milk-white skin looked ever more perfect for the small creases around her mouth that betrayed a sarcastic smile even when she did not smile; even the strange glew in her dark eyes which many would have named malicious or impish seem’d to have gained a warmer quality; and there she was, with him, Margaret Spinckes.

She seem’d as breath-taken as he; not with his person he was sure, but out of words to speak nonetheless.

 “Margaret”, he breathed at last, attempting to fill the silence between them, taking her hands in his in an imploring gesture, “I –“

“No. Do not speak. It’s of no use.”

She shook her head and looked up at him: her eyes were wide with tribulation and amazement, her bosom rose and fell violently.

He was no better; he could feel his hands shaking as they enclosed hers.

Both wanted to deny what they felt, knowing the sensation was mutual; both wanted to turn away but found they could not and so both stayed as they were, agitated to the very core.

“M-“ he started again, but his attempt to speak was shortened by her intervention:

“No, Graves, don’t.”

Her eyes met his, and did not let go as she straightened her back and rose to her toes to gain some height on him , burning with a stare challenging him to refuse, to act first, both of which he was unable to do.

Instead his lips parted only too willingly as she engag’d him in the sweet combat that is a kiss; the restraint it cost him not to devour her, to sink his hand in her hair and make her feel his desire for her in a way that would likely cause visible traces of their interaction on her skin or her cloathes, was almost impossible for him to muster.

Margaret knew what she was doing, just as he was certain she also knew how she had enchanted him. The greedy vixen made a sport of it to provoke him, some acts clearly meant to provoke, others subconscious and thus even sweeter.

The anger he initially felt when she bit his lip, leaving him with a sharp sting that made him momentarily angry and only fiercer in his pursuit, in which he had her press’d against the wall within no time, rose and abated in waves; he knew not whether to push her away or pull her to him.

The worst was, she seem’d to like to see him so, yelping with surprise at feeling the bite and taking immediate action in retaliation, mewled with hunger unsated and allowed him the liberty of pressing her even closer to his form, of feeling her writhing body against his own.

Shamelessness ruled and all mannerly ways and good breeding were forgotten; neither cared about the possibility of being seen or heard; the little noises she made when he tried new tricks with her and started to feel her front with one hand while the other kept her in place against the wall were too pleasurable to silence and he had no heart to slap the roving hands of hers away that encouraged him even more as they took hold of him everywhere.

In their wild pursuit, her attire had held out well against his heavy onslaught against the silken citadel, but the low-cut neckline which revealed her fetching bosom in a most delightful manner now yielded him, from his position standing directly above her, a more profound insight. The dark shapes of her nipples teased him, still half-hidden underneath the last battlements of Modesty and by Jove he would have enjoyed ripping the stomacher off, then open her laces and peel her out of whatever remained of her attire just to claim these twin-orbs of pleasure for his prize, yet called himself to retain a last measure of restraint.

What they were engaging in, and the aftermath he was sure even in this moment of delight would be rather embarrassing for both parties, was very wild already, wild enough to cost them both their good name if discovered.

It was not long until their excitement took the better of them; the wily woman knew what made him mad, mad with desire and like a lusty boy in his teenage years, all Reason was gone from his mind; all he could think was that he wanted her, and he would have her.

“Margaret”, he breathlessly whispered against her lips, “I would give anything to have you.”

“Anything”, his companion repeated.

“Anything.”

Her body grew still and rigid against him with every muscle taut as a bowstring.

“I am not a whore, Graves. I don’t want anything in return for-“ she paused, searching for a word, then replaced it with a sweeping gesture of her hand, which she had taken away from him, where he had found it so pleasantly situated on his back, “ _this_.”

Without saying a word or daring to form a reply, he knew what she meant.

Margaret fixed her attire more quickly than he thought possible and left him standing there, contemplating if he ought to re-join the card-party or if he should return to his lodgings to bemoan his fate and lie down.

Neither option pleased him, and as he still felt the aftershocks of the earthquake Margaret Spinckes, the wickedest vixen known to mankind, had stirred in him, he decided on relieving the unspeakable tension by means of a prostitute after begging his leave from their host under the false pretence of a headache- which was not so much a lie as in the metaphorical sense, Miss Spinckes gave him the very same.

The establishment he had in two years come to know but frequented not frequently enough to be a known and esteem’d guest there was fairly well-furnished and clean and thus charg’d quite dearly; however he was willing to spend an extra guinea for getting to spend something else with the surroundings and selected company being fairly agreeable.

“Come in good sir”, the Abbess of said establishment crooned, a middle-aged woman missing a few teeth who otherwise still looked fairly agreeable to the eye, had it not been for her teeth, which she hid by never smiling and so covering them.

He was led into a drawing room, where a dozen different perfumed bosoms that smelt as if they had been bathed in, not bedashed with, the odorous substance, waited for the night’s work.

“We pride ourselves serving every customer until he is sated”, the Abbess continued, “the freshest fruits of fair England’s country are here for the plucking. We have the finest apples”- she pointed at a girl reclining fully naked on a daybed with nought but stockings and a shawl draped in a manner to preserve the last remnant of her modesty from immediate sight, posing with her arms crossed behind her head so as to shew her delightfully perky bubbies to their best advantage, “and sweet peaches-“ she slapped the bottom of a girl passing them by to go upstairs with a gentleman on her arm.

Letting his glance rove over the available Cyprians in various states of undress, he decided on the one with the perky bubbies and motioned her over to him.

For a moment, the Cyprian’s face shewed an expression of disappointment or disgust, he could not say; apparently, old sea-officers were not high in favour.

She reached for a wrapper laying about and put it on before she followed his command, leaving the crone to try and offer to him not only our “dear, best Rose”, which apparently was the name of the one he had selected, but also a “fifteen-year-old country girl, good teeth, fair and above all untried and very eager to please”, for the “bargain” sum of a hundred guineas.

He refused her insistent hawking and followed Rose to her room; he was not fond of the young ones; some of the girls downstairs barely were women at all, and by looking at their juvenile faces he always came to think how age-wise each of them could be his daughter, which fill’d him with disgust enow to immediately end his lust.

Rose was a kind and obliging creature on the latter end of twenty, a rarity in the trade, where often only the youngest and prettiest were kept on in establishments such as this. Pretty she was no doubt and equally well practic’d in her trade, as she soon proved.

She made him help her undress, take off her garters and stockings, before she revealed the full vista of the pleasure-garden that was her body to him.

Encouraging her customer, she made a sport of guessing his occupation and when she heard he was a sea-officer, she professed to him her admiration for hardy sailors such as he and called him her Sea-Lion, then asked if his cannon, standing so readily, was prepar’d to fire; he said it was to which she said “nay sir, I have not inspected the balls yet” and fondl’d his stones with great care until she deem’d the preparations satisfactory upon which she reached for his cocked hat, put it on and climbed into his lap facing him.

With her perky bubbies jittering she rode him St George until he spent, which took him not long, causing Rose to dismount and lay her body down length-wise next to his, where she rested and watched as he gained his composure.

The affair had been over fairly quickly and he had got what he wanted, yet the release he had felt in the moment of spending had almost immediatly been replac’d by a hollow emptiness in his soul that was all-consuming and smarted in the heart.

Absent-mindedly he stroakt Rose’s coarse natural curls, which she, instead of styling them in the latest fashions, let fall down her back in a cascade of perfect chestnut.

Rose put his hand away, laying it on her bubbies instead as if to encourage him to another bout rather than to put her hair into a state of disorder and purr’d lewd encouragements into his ear.

When he shook his head and somewhat clumsily retreated from her, she gave him a curious glance and in a tone that had a ring of disappointed mockery to it commented snidely that she must have destroy’d the flagship at the first attempt then, but he did not care; should she question his virility all she liked, he knew it was not true.

Within instants he was dressed and out of her room, tossing her the coins he owed her and made his way into the dark street, where he was in luck to catch a hired chaise that had just unloaded a gargle of young gentlemen intent on enjoying their night at the same establishment he had just left and was in search of his next customer.

It being dark out, he preferred to leave the curtain on one side open and watch’d the street as the wheels in their attempt of trying to pass the uneven roads shook him up quite badly; in the day, he might have considered walking regardless of the disreputability of  the street in which the bagnio was and the dangers of the equally disreputable audience a place like this attrackted, but at night, he felt safer not travelling alone and on foot as he had no desire to be murdered for his watch or the money he had still on him.

Rose had been wrong, he could have continu’d, just not with her, or any woman of her sort for that matter. What he had sought was to sate a carnal urge, a necessity of the body that sometimes was bound to overcome men, and it had been tended to.

To be with a woman, to do it twice, thrice a night, was different; such was no business-transaction, no quick satisfaction of urgent need alone; there had to be care and tenderness for the other.

Perhaps other men saw it differently, but he thought so.

Laying with Rose, he hadn’t even thought of her when he had spent; before his closed eyes had been another, who had heightened his arousal but who had also made him more ashamed for he was thinking of her, a lady of good breeding, in a situation of such disrepute.

The carriage came to a halt outside his lodgings, and his misfortunes continu’d immediatly when he stepped into a heap of horse manure on his way to the door.

Why must he be so miserable a man? The image of Miserability was only reinforced by the image of himself he saw in the glass; from his sloppily-threwn on cloaths it was Evident where he had been, and yet, he did not look like a man returning from a glorious night of conquest and pleasure, the face in the mirror looked very sad and ashamed.

In his utterly broken spirits, he went to bed without even asking the boy to help him; he was asleep already, certainly, and he could not support his clumsiness in this moment anyway.

There was water for him to wash thankfully already prepared that took some of the smell of Roses headache-making perfume and traces of vermillion away before he laid down in hopes that he would not wake in the morning, that God would have mercy with so pathetic a figure as the caricature of a man he had become.

However, should it not please the Lord to take him, he would have to survive another day at least. The officer took the rudder from the Broken Man and was intent to steer the boat to the harbour, homeward bound- or was he?

In the event he would wake in the morning, he would not continue to, figuratively speaking, continue digging a grave form himself to lie in. If he would, the only thing resulting from it would be amusing jibes made concerning his name, and nobody would be sad for him or shew him compassion.

No; he would not let himself be conquered by Sadness, or a woman. He would conquer, and this time he would succeed.

No longer did he care for the Philosophical Contemplations that had caused him sleepless nights before, whether it was acceptable for him to desire, to perhaps even love a woman.

He was past all that, and he would shew her.

When she had told him she did not want anything in return, he had known what she meant. Margaret Spinckes was past caring for the sweet, sugared words of men who would never be true to them, or to her, flatterers who would only disappoint.

She had seen the world and knew no-one could hold true to such big words as laying the whole world at the feet of somebody else, because it was impossible.

Metaphorically speaking, he would still give everything, but such was no practicability. He could however give her one thing he owned, and nobody could take from him, and perhaps she would in exchange for his own give him hers.

The heart was not too little a gift, or too large; it could only belong to One’s Self, no bailiff could ever lay claim to it and it was the Seat of Truth in the body, so giving one’s heart was the most sincere, the purest possible thing to do.

She infuriated him, she made him very angry, and for some reason, he was not aggrieved by this fact but felt endearment in his heart.

He would win her. Whenever the possibility would shew itself, he would win her. And he would not fail as they had in Cartagena des Indias in ’41.

They would fight, and this time, he would conquer her- if she had not conquered him already.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The painting of which Samuel has evidently seen etchings (i.e. cheap, printable replicas) of is a depiction of Leda and the Swan attributed to François Boucher (1703-1770). If you want to look it up, be warned- NSFW content ahead.
> 
> Homosexuality was punisheable by death as according to article 28 of the Articles of War. I don't know Samuel's view on homosexuality, but given he was always intent on keeping his men well and fed as well as away from danger, I think he would rather have kept a man whose personal life he'd have taken issue with rather than executing a skilled member of the crew.
> 
> Gian Lorenzo Bernini (1598-1680): famous Italian Baroque Sculptor.
> 
> Faro is a card-game played with 52 cards and was highly popular among gamblers before it was sort of ousted by poker in the early 20th century. Faro also allowed for copious ways of cheating (perhaps one of the reasons why the game was so popular) either by the card-dealer or the players themselves.
> 
> Today is heavy on some 18th century lingo unutterable in polite company:
> 
> Abbess: Madam of a brothel  
> Bagnio: originally, a bagnio was a bath house but through the course of the late 17th and into the 18th century, they increasingly became places of ill repute as they started to add rooms to stay in and prostitutes. They were generally rather upmarket and attracted more affluent customers.  
> Bubbies: exactly what you think it means.  
> Cyprian: a prostitute  
> Riding St George: having sex with the woman being on top.
> 
> Underage prostitution was, sadly, very common as many young women from the countryside coming to the big cities of the time were either lured into prostitution through scams or turned to prostitution after falling on hard times or failing to find work in the promised land of the city.  
> If you go through Harris’ List, it’s evident from the ages given many women did not last long, mainly because there was no way to actually prevent pregnancies and STDs such as syphilis.  
> The latter were, some men’s sexual phantasies aside, a reason why virgins were sought after- they could be trusted to be free of STDs.
> 
> The siege and battle of Cartagena des Indias in the spring of1741 (for the larger context, see the War of Jenkins' Ear) were a massive British failure against the Spanish in what is today Colombia. They laid siege to a number of Spanish forts but had their numbers decimated by the Spanish and diseases.   
> Samuel, then 28, was there aboard the third-rate ship Norfolk as a lieutenant, serving alongside his cousin Thomas and under his uncle (said cousin's father) a Captain Thomas Graves (nepotism was a family tradition, it seems).   
> A fun fact on the side: The man in command was a certain Admiral Edward Vernon and under him served, on his flaghsip HMS Princess Caroline no less, a captain of the Marines by the name of Lawrence Washington. Lawrence named his estate after his former commander and when it passed to his younger half-brother George, the latter retained the name.   
> To this day, Mount Vernon, home of General Washington, bears the name of a British admiral.


	6. Margaret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday Rear-AdmiraloftheBlueSamuelGraves, happy birthday to you!
> 
> To day's our protagonist's 306th birthday, an I've saved a very special chapter for this occasion- I hope you enjoy it!

Even when sat in the carriage returning her to her lodgings, Margaret still felt the aftershock of the evening’s _entertainment_ , earthquake-like, greater than the effects of the Earthquake of Lisbon, which one could not help but remember if one had lived in its time, ripple through her body.

Fie, Samuel Graves! He was infuriating in the extreme, to kiss a lady and then make the same trite advances she had survived a thousand times trying to smile through them while inwardly rolling her eyes skyward?

Such behaviour vexed her, why would men always try to buy a woman’s affection, either through sending her costly presents or promising her the world, Space even?

And when would they comprehend women were not cattle, and could not be bought at all? Most men wished for a slave more than a wife anyway, she had come to think, one to ensure his house was clean, he and the children fed, and generally at his service with all requests a man might have; and to lure them into the institution of marriage, which allows the man the exploitation of his wife, her money and movables, and above all her person.

She had vowed never to marry even before her sister had perished, tho’ the event had hardened her resolve never to enter any union with a man for the safe-guarding of her personal health.

Graves was a flatterer like the rest of them and thought a woman would injoy to have her person valued like a horse at a fair- the world in her case, which he (like those wishing to buy the horse) would never pay; “ten guineas for him”, the vendor says, to which the interested party replies “no; he is not worth five, he has bad teeth and a limp”.

-Had he thought he would have to buy her affection? She was no bunter that could be had for a price- and if she ever had a price, his beggarly half-pay would never pay for it. He would sooner rot away in debtor’s prison than have her.

That was the worst part for Margaret, and it smarted her deeply, for she had found great Enjoyment in the affair; she had kissed him of her free will, and let him handle her as he pleas’d because it had pleas’d her as well; his hands and lips all o’er her had been welcome, and she had in turn felt welcome to handle him similarly.

Was it not enow they both had liked it? If there had indeed been any price to pay it had been a shared one, namely the fear of detection by a servant rushing through the room or a Guest who by mistake might have opened the wrong door, but they had both paid this peril no heed, and embarked upon the rough romance of raw desire, which, she realiz’d with a shiver, might easily have led them further afield than she would have anticipated at the commencement of the evening.

She would have liked it, even, then, in the moments before he had insulted her. And perhaps would have let it happen. Recently, she had no more reason to believe she was in danger of falling pregnant, so – immediately, such thoughts were ruled out for their lewdness and lack of morality.

As a mother to her little niece and born to an honourable Family, it was her Duty to be virtuous and a Model for the young girl, in whom she would find all favourable traits a female ought to have; intelligence, accomplishments, a sense of the fashionable to please Society, piety and modesty to name but a few.

By no means would she betray her own ideals for a fat old walrus that had happened to cross her way. If only she could think of him as a fat old walrus! Despite knowing and having viewed his defects several times, she liked him better than she would ever admit to his face; he was not pleasing to the eye but in other ways had pleased her well- until he had displeased her.

-She would not see him again, Margaret ruled when she undressed that night and put her jewels and ropes of pearls away to reveal underneath a tired woman in the fourth decade of her life, which shewed, she found, when she was unadorned and out of her fine things.

Graves would surely be in agreement with her that their acquaintance had been beneficial to him; after all she had been seen with him at Sir S—‘s ball, and had walk’d with him also. She had found a passing divertissement in it all, and he had been pleasant enow. There would be no great farewell, no funeral held for their mutual time; she despised the latter anyway and with a great passion. They would simply never meet more, and should he send her letters, she would return them, pretending she was no longer living in Bath and had neglected to inform her landlord to forward any mail that would still arrive.

 

In the morning, she rose to feel rather liberated and full of restlessness that wanted taming by busying herself.

She had no appetite to do anything in company, and had no mind for reading either and wished to leave her rooms, but not to walk out in the cold; the evident, and rather healthy solution presented herself in the form of going to bathe, which she had done only infrequently since coming to the city. Having her maid prepare her bathing attire and selecting in her mind already a quieter, less crowded bath than the most fashionable ones, which she intended to visit in the afternoon, when hopefully a majority of bathers would have retreated already in favour of getting dressed for dinner, she almost looked forward to the change of scenery.

 

The water, once she descended into it, was warm and steam’d, the fumes scented with little bowls of perfum’d oils and pomade swimming about. The water was rather empty, which pleased her as she selected a seat in the wall were she could sit and watch the few other bathers bobbing up and down in the water.

A while she sat, sometimes wiping the sweat from her forehead with the handkerchief stowed away under her cap and busied her mind with thinking on her niece, of when to return home- clearly, the Gwillims, her cousins and aunts to Elizabeth, would like to have her a while again, so before she would be sent off to visit them, it would please her a lot to spend a little time with her. Perhaps the next week.

As she was so deeply sunken into the sea of her thoughts, she did not remark upon the new arrival descending into the waters. Enwrapp’d in brown linen, he looked like the others and she did not spare him half a glance- ‘till from Within, a Voice of Instinct told her to turn her head.

_Graves._

He wore no wig, was thus somewhat harder to recognise, and added with the unfamiliarity of seeing him in bathing dress, it was now most evident to her why she had not recognized him immediatly.

What trick of mischance had sent him after her?

Blasted be that man.

Before she could turn away to obscure her face to him and find a way to discreetly exit the water and steal away quietly, his eyes form’d a connexion with hers.

Drat. He had evidently seen her- his gaze held Margaret’s as she observed him moving closer. How inconceivably graceful were his movements in the water, contrary to on dry land?

Evidently, she had not deterred him enow from ever conversing with her again- but to converse was not his intention, as became soon evident.

He spoke not a word just gaz’d at her with a look of Anger and Desire on his face, but did not give her any chance to move away without causing the other bathers to remark upon it.

Their bodies touched and her pulse started to race. Her side was pressed to his and for the remaining few fellow bathers, it must have looked as if the two were very friendly indeed, but since she knew no one of those present personally, they might just have assumed them to be a husband and wife enjoying some not entirely seemly physical closeness.

To Margaret’s equal horror at the prospect of being caught and strangely exhilarating delight, one of his large, heavy hands had come to reach for her linen petticoat, drawing it up somewhat so that her knees were exposed below the waterline, allowing his hand to slip below the garment.

He started by stroking her thigh, moving from its outer parts inward over the course of one long, agonising minute, testing if she would refuse what he was insinuating would come next.

Even if she would have wanted to, which she did not, she would not have been able to stop him. The soft pressure he exerted on her inner thigh without making the final move she knew was to come, the terrible, wonderful softness of his incredibly large hand was a temptation too exquisite to refuse- biting her lip, Margaret suppressed a sigh. She must not be heard or otherwise draw attention to herself.

At last, he, with a very honest and concentrated face, left her thigh be to cup her sex in his hand, gently and softly for a moment before his index finger slipped between the lips of her commodity and began its journey of exploration.

Margaret, well aware of the two other bathers, luckily engrossed in a conversation and not paying them any mind, looked up to Samuel, wanting him to know what he did to her left her breathless, how her heart was fluttering and her face flushed, how her desire had overruled any remaining Sense and Prudence, how she would give herself to this moment with abandon.

He was skilled in what he did, leaving Margaret to wonder if this was so because he had been married before, if his late wife had taught him how to give pleasure to a woman or if he had had whores enow and felt a sting of jealousy for the dead wife of her lover, which she immediately abandoned again as an immeasurable unkindness against someone who couldn’t be blamed- besides, she didn’t want to think about what her jealousy might imply and thus chased any critical thoughts away by giving herself over to the pleasure given to her.

She wanted to whimper, to cry out, but could only bite her lip and move her body somewhat to intensify the feeling he elicited- certainly, the forbidden nature of the situation added to why it was so exciting and Samuel’s ever-bolder caresses and the intrusion of a single finger into her body, the way he pulled her against him when he began to thrust leisurely in and out while continuing to stimulate all the other places susceptible to a skilful hand.

At last, shuddering, her vision went white for a moment and she gasped- the best she could do to substitute the cry she would have liked to give- feeling immense pleasure rolling over her, the release of an explosion centred in her gut that washed over her entire body and Samuel didn’t even stop to allow her the mercy of being able to breathe again, he continued his ministrations until she could not think, breathe or stand anymore (thanks be to God for the wall behind her).

The man grinned wickedly at her, visibly content with what he had done, but not lacking a moving adoration in his gaze, and Margaret, transported by pleasure, shook off all thoughts that had previously vexed her so in relation to his person.

“Your rooms”, she whispered into his ear, “separate carriages.”

He murmured his address into her own before he let her go. The soft growl of his voice against her ear sent a renewed tingling down her spine that collided with the feeling of utmost exertion that had her wonder how she even manag’d to cross the basin to the steps out and into the changing-area, where her maid sat with a basket of stockings she was repairing in wait for her mistress.

As the woman had dressed her, she gave her strict orders to return home and send her a nightshirt, clothing simple enough to avoid stares and to be put on alone, and matching shoes to the following address.

“Don’t ogle so”, she reprimanded the gawking woman, “I hope I can rely on your discretion. Otherwise…”

There was no need to finish the sentence, a servant had to know the consequences disobedience and disloyalty could have.

She was the first to arrive and let in by a somewhat startled servant- her damp hair and smell of the baths did not exactly imply a respectable social call, she realiz’d.

He was but a Boy, shy at the sight of a woman with a commanding air and would not have said not to her even if she had insisted on taking the silver candlesticks in the dining room.

She insisted on finding the Admiral’s bedchamber by herself, which she did, and began disrobing. Firstly, she let her damp hair down which was still hidden beneath her cap before she began to unfasten her jacket. She was not used to undress herself but found confidence in the fact that in one way or another, her maid dressed and undressed herself alone each day also, so it could not be that hard.

Margaret had come as far as her Petticoats when Samuel entered, his wig slightly askew and his dress sloppy.

“Margaret”, he moaned and took her into a firm embrace, pressing their bodies against another.

“Let me.”

He helped her unfasten them and made rather lustful comments about her shapely calves once they could be seen through her rather plain shift of thin cotton.

Last came her stays, which he undid with the skill of a man to whom the art of female disrobing had become known through practice.

With keen lust and interest, she removed his hands off her to be given room to move and in turn, attend to him, to get off unnecessary fabric, which was done quite quickly.

Kissing and suggestively rubbing their bodies against another, they managed to move to the bed, where they allowed to let themselves fall.

O how she wanted him. No longer would she deny herself the curiosity of knowing a man carnally. There were alternative methods to gain pleasure, some of which were known to and had been used by her in the past, but since she considered herself a barren spinster (a welcome development that had a few months ago taken away from her intirely the last Remainders of Fear of Dying like her sister) and could be sure there would not be any consequences on her end, she decided to give herself over to him entirely.

On a provocative whim, she undid the bow at the front and pulled down her shift so it revealed her breasts, their centres perked against the cool air and Samuel worshipped them with delight, as he did the rest of her body.

However, this was a game for Two, not for One and she sought to give back as much as she had receiv’d, wherefore she quite boldly reached for the part of him that distinguishes Man from Woman and handled it according to what she had heard from frivolous acquaintances and what was generally Said would drive a man into raptures of Pleasure.

Indeed he moaned, his machine growing ever more rigid in her hands and it was delightful to see what power she exerted over him.

“Let me sit up”, he said breathing heavily and did so with his legs dangling over the side of the bed. “You’ll like it more this way, trust me.”

Samuel motioned her to come over and to seat herself on his thigs, not side-saddle-like, but _en cavalier_ with her legs spread so her centre, burning and wet from the bodily reactions their combined lewdness elicited rubbed against that eager, hard part of him that was throbbing and hot to her touch.

He held her firmly around her lower back so she could not fall down and once more tipped her velvet full hungrily before Margaret, unwilling to wait any longer, rose to her knees and brought his rigid instrument against where it would seek entrance to her body.

The sensation was new to her, the uncomfortable stretch that somehow drove her insane because it felt surprisingly good as she lowered herself down on him, meeting his eager thrusts.

As their pleasure heightened to indescribable levels, Samuel, perhaps forced by her hands steadying herself against his shoulders, fell backwards and she on top of him and they both died, to speak figuratively, panting with breath lost in the inexplicable delectation and exhaustion their amorous duel had brought on.

Panting, they took their time disentangling their limbs from another before Samuel motioned her to make herself comfortable and drew the blanket over her.

Words were useless, as were their attempts at trying to explain what they had just done or speak about it.

Mesmerised as if put under an incantation, she wished to look at him touch him even and so ran her hands through his dark, quite short hair mixed with shining threads of silver.

He was not a beautiful man by any means, and yet she could not tell when she had beheld any vista more pleasant than his smile when he gazed down on her, propped up on his elbow.

“Who would have thought Admiral Graves would wreck a woman on the cliffs of pleasure? I am sure you will have to stand trial for that”, she quipped, causing him to chuckle in reply.

“And what would my sentence be?”, he enquired playfully, toying with one of her nipples as he spoke, twisting it deliciously between two of his large fingers she would never have thought capable of such exact and gentle deeds.

“Death.”

“ _La petite morte_ , I hope?”

She could not help but laugh and demanded another kiss from him.

“Allow me to shew to you the rest of my arsenal then.”

All she could do was give him a quizzical look before he disappeared below the blanket with surprising speed, from whence he proceeded to give his orders to her as he took her knees into his hands:

“Open, if you please.”

She complied with curiosity as his large frame came to insert itself between her dispread legs. And oh! What he did was entirely pleasurable, surprising even: he kissed her, tasted her and what his tongue was doing was beyond description entirely.

Since they were alone, Margaret allowed herself to moan and cry as she pleased, digging her hands into his short hair to keep him just where he was as a masterful stroke of his tongue tipped her over the edge again-

In the same moment, the door opened and in shock, Margaret could only scramble for the blanket to pull it over her exposed upper body and felt Samuel stiffen where he was, just like a frightened deer or rabbit.

“’xcuse me, there was this arriving-“

The boy from before entered with a chest, her chest, packed by her maid and quickly left the room with a fever-red head after a few seconds of momentary paralysis at realising what scene he had just walked into without even knocking, as a good house-servant would.

“Yes, thank you, George”, Samuel said from under the blanket in the same commanding voice he used in public. Margaret couldn’t help but laugh at the comicality of the moment- the stern Admiral Graves caught in a lewd pose and trying to remain the respectable commanding officer with his head buried between the thighs of his lover was too much to bear.

As the door closed again and she burst out laughing, Samuel came up from below the blanket and aligned their bodies, drawing her into his arms while chuckling to himself.

“My man Stephens has gone to care for his sick father”, he explained, “he would never be so indiscreet as that.”

“One can only hope he does not talk”, Margaret murmured and suddenly felt quite cold. She was covered in sweat, her own and her lover’s and the sheets clung on to her uncomfortably, as did the faint sulphuric smell of the baths. Mere seconds before the boy had entered, she had enjoyed rapturous pleasure one could only describe by blasphemously calling their love-making heavenly, might even have been inclin’d to believe he had made good on his promise of offering her the World when she had died with rapture, but the unbidden guest had called her back to reality.

Reality was harsh, and would always be, and the truth of this reality was she could not afford a scandal in order not to jeopardise with her own reputation and to be an example for little Elizabeth. What would she tell the child if she were to return home shrouded in a cloud of disgraceful rumours?

The cold, hard truth was she was a grown woman, too old to be forgiven such a misstep. She knew better than to throw herself into the arms of the first man who wooed her. She was no silly, shallow young thing anymore and had had her share of adventures in her lifetime. These adventures had not been of the Romantic kind, but she could claim having made the most of what God had given her, had learned a great deal, seen her share of people and society and could count herself content and her affairs settled- so why was she so self-destructive of all the Good she had accrued?

“I need to go.”

Margaret rose, now suddenly painfully aware of the fact she was naked and attempted to cover what little she could, which was use- and meaningless anyway, since Graves had seen everything of her already, with her hands as she walked over towards the chest the boy had set down in the middle of the room to pull out the things her maid had packed for her. The clean shift smelling of the herbs usually packed with her clothing to prevent moths from ruining them calmed her for the reason of the familiarity of said scent.

With her foot resting on the edge of the chest, she rolled up her stockings and tied them into place before slipping into her shoes to go and get her stays.

Her fingers were dithery in their movements, frustratingly inefficient. Other women had to do this every morning, she admonished herself when she found she was taking more time than her maid usually did tightening the laces when from the bed, Samuel Graves, who had made a Point of not directing his eyes in her direction while she dress’d so far fixating a point in the distance outside the window in the street, offered in a quiet, tentative tone:

“May I help you?”

Margaret would have liked to answer him but found her mouth too dry to form a reply and her head devoid of words.

Nodding, she braced her tensed-up body for his approach, well aware and wary of what this man was capable of, what he could do and how he seemed to know her every Weakness without prior analysis.

He looked like a horribly comical parody of an ancient roman, dress’d in a bedsheet only by having wrapped it around his hip in a bad, yet functional imitation of a toga that was in his case only meant to provide a quick solution to preserve their shared modesty.

Samuel Graves was not a skilled ladies’ maid either, but laced her in quite well after having been given a few instructions. His hands on her back, on her front, everywhere were treacherous aides, trying to dissuade her from leaving, knowing she enjoyed their touch too much for her own good.

He worked silently and with great efficiency as was to be expected of an experienced officer. Suddenly, and rather unexpectedly, he said:

“Please, don’t leave.”

The pulling motion with which he tightened the laces felt like a metaphor for his plea, pulling her back slightly as he pulled the laces tight, thus drawing her back towards his chest slightly.

“I need to. I have been foolish, I cannot stay.”

For a moment, Margaret was sure her firm response had had the desired effect on him, namely that he would not beg her to stay any longer, help her dress semi-decently in a timely fashion and let her leave with as few words as possible exchanged between them, but in that assumption she was mistaken.

“Margaret”, he started again, “please- I know your reasons not, but I know that I have felt similarly in the past days and weeks- I felt I had to beg my leave of you and return to Devonshire, that I could not be with you. I doubted myself and my past, whether I, an old widower, should allow myself the foolish delight of romance, whether it was right to do so, I questioned myself why I am so infernally attracted to you, called into question whether my feelings for you were genuine or merely a self-deception because I long for company after my wife’s death-“

Graves gasped for breath, his body heaving. He had let go of the laces and Margaret was, in theory, free to go, to draw away, but she did not and instead stood petrified at his words while still presenting her back to him.

“But I discovered none of this is true. I revere you, Margaret Spinckes for being- being Margaret Spinckes, and nobody else. You have made me very happy these past two weeks and I hope I have done the same to you-“

Trembling slightly at his agitated, passionate and genuine effectuations, she nodded ever so slightly. The most unlikely man to catch her eye had caught it, and until this afternoon, she had enjoyed playing at courtship very much- perhaps because until this afternoon, she had been sure it was a playful game played between two adults, nothing more.

But they had taken to bed, and somehow, despite having enjoyed it, Margaret was certain that by having done so, whatever their mutual attachment qualified as could no longer remain in its former State, in which they had both felt comfortable in because it had not come with any hidden requirements or expectations attached.

In the aftermath of having taken to bed together, they had closed a metaphorical door on what they could before have called an enjoyable, lively friendship with many social calls and even on some occasions confidential conversations. Their relationship had changed within a matter of minutes and Margaret realised this was the point at which they would either decide to bid adieu and never see each other again, or-

“If you truly want to leave, then you must, but before you do, I ask you, please question your heart as thoroughly as I did mine and tell to me your findings.”

Margaret could not continue in this manner any longer. She turned to view the man she had shared a few moments of tender passion with looking as if he were in extreme pain- and perhaps he was, only his wound was not one of the flesh, his lay deeper, hidden in the cavern of his ribcage.

“Samuel, I-“

Shaking her head, she indicated she presently could not speak. Too many thoughts were racing back and forth through her mind at the same time to form any coherent statement that would have so much as half-expressed the emotions that seemed to draw her under like the bow wave of a large ship.

“I am sorry”, he said, his usually loud voice low and trembling, “I know I have done wrong, I ruined you, your reputation-“

Not knowing if she should snort or cry, a combination of both left Margaret’s mouth at hearing his words.

“You haven’t ruined me. I am a grown woman, Graves, not an ignorant little girl. I wanted it. Your initiation was most titillating and I wished us to go further, just as you did.“

“But I should have- what if- I put you into irreversible danger when I did not-“ he made a face like having bitten into a raw onion while blushing like a schoolboy, “removed myself from you before spending. I was selfish when I should not have been, lost in the delight you gave me, and for that alone I am undeserving of your company already.”

Margaret shook her head and looked him in the eyes, those dark, warm depths she had found full of kindness over the past weeks.

“You need not worry about that- save yourself the false gentlemanliness, what has been done has been done- and has not your Success in that particular department been rather limited? Besides, since a few months, you see- I am not able to bear children any longer. I am barren with age.”

Samuel Graves’ eyes gave away first relief, then some sort of odd, unspecified commiseration that looked like a cautionary reaction because he thought this was what she would want to see.

“Do not feel sorry for me; I wanted it this way. I did not marry so I could always remain in control of my fortune and my person, but that was not the only reason: this way, I would never have children- it is not that I don’t like children, but-“

She breathed once, twice, very deep in an attempt to calm herself. So far, she had held back on what she had seen, her experiences, her past. She had found it not important and for some reason, had preferred it hidden from Graves.

“You see, I saw my sister die giving birth to my only niece. The baby was a miracle; she and her husband had tried for twelve years to be blessed with a child and then- she died. My dear, lovely sister died. You cannot know the pain of being helpless, watching as the midwives and even the doctor called to the scene could not help- I was glad I had decided never to put myself through this ordeal and still am. If you wish to extend your condolences to me, do so because you are sorry for the loss the little girl, my mother and I suffered.”

“I am very sorry, Margaret”, he replied immediately, and moved, enwrapping her in a hesitant embrace that drew her back against his protruding belly.

There was an element of true consolation in his embrace, in the way he was so quiet and heartfelt about it without wasting any words on stilted commiserations and simply drew her to him, holding her against his as good as completely undressed form.

“And I am sorry for you, too”, she whispered, “because you are so lonely.”

His words had touched her, that he had thought so much about her was flattering and terrifying at the same time, for she would have to refuse him and break his hopes and heart anew. He was a strong man, had, if one believed the song a _Heart of Oak_ that would prove unsinkable, even when bombarded with the heavy artillery of personal sadness and private loss.

He had spoken of her with such tenderness and at the same time made certain she would know he had grown more than a little fond of her.

She turned to face him without leaving the warmth of his embrace. In his eyes, she saw pain; the hardy seadog more at home on the planks of a quarter-deck than the floorboards of his own homestead had tears in his eyes. He was thinking about his dead wife, she was certain, but not exclusively- the trembling hand, or rather large paw, somewhat calloused from adventures of younger years attempting to hold her as well as it could, shaking as it did, told her she was a part of his tribulations, as he was part of hers.

To give back in equal measure, she tentatively reached around him in an attempt to hold the much taller and bigger man in an embrace mirroring his.

Quite unceremoniously, her head was in the process of all this pressed against his bare chest, where buried below the wiry dark and silver hair, a wounded heart beat to the drum of Agitation.

“Stay, Margaret. Please.”

He meant what he said, she felt it- and felt it so strongly, she was not intent on leaving anymore.

Outside, the evening had brought on the demi-darkness of dusk, which still came early at this time of year. In the soft darkness that had a soothing element to it, the softness with which it painted the room in black velvet that promised to bury all worries under its star-spangled blanket.

She wouldn’t leave. Not tonight.

Softly, she shook her head, her still very disorderly hair interspersed with very fine strands of grey she saw more prominently in the mirror than everyone else who looked her directly in the face claimed them to be and reinforced her embrace.

“Let’s get these off”, he murmured softly into her ear and helped her step out of the cloaths she had haphazardly thrown on in the spirit of leaving post-haste before, and did it, to her surprise, without making any forward advances, as she was half-expecting, given they had already shared his bed prior to their rather heart-wrenching exchange.

Prepared to slap his hand away from where she no longer wished to feel it, she was surpriz’d by his chaste Gentleness, which he accentuated even more by handing her his banyan so she could cover herself. Finding he was in greater need of clothing than she, still dress’d only in a bedsheet, she handed it back to him so he could come to his own modesty’s rescue.

After a few moments of shuffling and arranging what little cloathing they wore, they, without speaking, walked back to the bed.

“Left or right?”, Admiral Graves asked her and elaborated when she gave him a look of not comprehending his question, “which side of the bed- my wife, she preferred to sleep on the left side of the bed.”

“The right then”, Margaret said, partly because it was true and partly because she would not compete with the Dead Woman.

Rounding the bed to find his allotted space, he climbed in and drew the blanket over both of them.

There were no words needed when they both inched closer- certainly, there would have been enough space to leave a gap between them, but neither of them was desirous of loneliness when they were searching for the exact opposite.

One of his heavy, strong arms came to reach around her when he felt hers wrap around him with determination.

Aware of their physical differences, he enquired whether she was comfortable, and she was, saying she hoped he was, too.

“Yes,” he replied and began to slowly stroke her back. In his voice, Margaret could hear emotional agitation, perhaps even tears and was immediately thankful her own face was, thanks to their difference in proportions, hidden in his chest.

-And then, they simply fell asleep.

In the morning, she awoke with Samuel Graves’ arm still around her to the disorderly state they had left the room in with cloaths strewn about and the smell of cold sweat clinging on to them both.

The early morning light highlighted the lines on his face, his rather unshapely form and yet, his face, rosy cheeks and the faint, yet content pout on his otherwise thin lips combined with surprisingly long, dark eyelashes had never looked more advantageous.

Quietly, she managed to extricate her body from his embrace intending to go as long as darkness would cover her retreat fully and before she would have to speak with him about the evening, intending to slip on her things as good as she could- of course she could dress without help, but it was harder than when one was assisted by a maid, as she was accustomed to.

In the darkness, her searching hands found the taper she had recalled standing beside the bed in the evening and lit it with the aid of a half-heartedly glowing ember that constituted the remains of last night’s fire.

The air was cool, bordering on outright cold with the fire burnt down and the only source of warmth the man she had left behind in his bed with a cushion stuffed under his arm to make it so as if he was still holding her and prevent him from waking from the sudden change of situation.

Goose flesh crept over her skin as she stood shivering and rolling her stockings up and soon reached her breasts, making her aureoles swell until her urge to touch them reminded her of the delights Graves had sparked in her when he had fondled and kissed them in all manners and ways. Wistful arousal crept over her and she made quick work of restraining them under her stays, oddly embarrassed by the memory.

The petticoats and jacket her maid had packed for her were quite plain and easy enough to put on; however, fixing her stays in an acceptable fashion was harder, for she could not reach her back so well without performing an act of ridiculous contortion.

At last she managed, bunched her hair under a cap and collected last night’s attire and threw it into the chest she had been brought, reminding herself to find the boy and tell him that she would send someone to collect her belongings later.

She was already half out of the door and ready to slip into the morning darkness that always seemed to be darker than the actual night itself, but was called back by a sudden urge to turn around and lay her eyes on the man in the bed again.

She approached him and almost tenderly pulled the blanket up to his shoulder to ensure he would not be cold when he woke up in the same fashion as when putting her Elizabeth to bed, the fire not yet having been stoked.

Having done so, she let her glance linger on him for an instant more, before she slipped into the cold air of a January dawn in hopes not to be recognised at such an early hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 1755, the Great Lisbon Earthquake hit Portugal. Estimations of casualties vary between 10,000 and 100,000 lives lost. Shortly before 10 AM on All Saints’ Day, an earthquake occurred, lasting about 3-6 minutes and destroying approximately 85% of buildings in Lisbon. In the wake of the earthquake, a fire spread across the city that would later also be hit by a Tsunami.  
> The earthquake was so strong, its aftershocks could be felt (to name but three places) in Galway, Finland and Venice.  
> This harrowing event greatly impacted contemporary philosophy and literature; one of the most famous examples of the earthquake in literature is Goethe’s autobiography, in which he recalls being six years old and terrified at hearing the news from Lisbon, which had caused a great stir in his hometown of Frankfurt am Main. 
> 
> Bathing-suits, if you will, at this time, consisted of linen breeches for the gentlemen and petticoat and jacket for ladies. As far as my research went, the sometimes rather elaborate bathing gowns worn by upper-class women in their own home were not worn at Bath (perhaps because the material might, when getting wet, be a little too revealing for the general public). The headgear consisted of hats and/or caps for the ladies.  
> An interesting feature were the small bowls of scented oils floating about. For convenience, Samuel and Margaret didn’t go to the King’s Bath but one of the smaller ones, because the King’s Bath, which basically formed a unit with the Pump Room, had a viewing gallery and glass ceiling for nosy onlookers… 
> 
> Rude and lewd:  
> Bunter: (from Grose’s A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, 1785) "a low,dirty prostitute, half whore and half beggar."  
> Commodity: (from Grose’s A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, 1785) “a woman’s commodity; the private parts of a modest woman, and the public parts of a prostitute.”  
> Instrument/Machine: penis (both taken from “Fanny Hill”)  
> Tipping the velvet: (from Grose’s A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, 1785) “to tip the velvet; tongueing a woman”


	7. Samuel

When he awoke in the morning to the servant-boy waking him, he was alone.

He did not realise immediatly, for in the state of half-sleep he was in, he did not realise the Meaning of the boy standing over him in an attempt to wake his master, and not the stirring body of his waking lover prompting him to rise from his sleep.

At first, he rose, then turn’d, then looked around: could she perhaps have gone to dress, or had risen already and waited for him in the parlour?

His hopes however were all turnt to dust when the boy inform’d him of her departure before dawn, and that in the course of the Day, someone would come to pick up her belongings.

In a gruff tone he dispatched the boy to go about his regular duties and told him not to disturb him and to allow no visitors in at all, only if it was Miss Spinckes he should open the door and once again reminded him to keep his silence, if his life and position were dear to him.

As the door clos’d behind the boy and he left him to himself without having waited on him to dress him, Samuel sat on the edge of his bed in his night-attire and felt like a Beach’d Whale, a creature out of its element, left to cease existing, and fade into nothingness once seagulls and other animals had picked the bones clean.

Why had she gone? Had she not liked it, tho’ she had told him so? He had hoped she would have enjoyed their congress, for he most certainly had, and had tried to make it worth her while, also. Had he been to Rough and Deviant with her? It was not common, what he had done, but had heard Ladies enjoyed obtaining pleasure in this fashion and in some of the works of less savoury literature he had consum’d, it had always worked satisfactorily.

Their being discovered of course had been Unfortunate, but the boy would not tell- he had made certain of that. A life at Sea on the quarterdeck awarded one the bellowing tone and intimidating air that makes a commander of men effective in his position.

So far, he had scared off a woman and a milk-faced boy barely fifteen; what a deplorable creature he was. No-one could ever like him and even his family was of no comfort. Young Graves, his godson, he had heard from the recent correspondence with his dear Mother, did not repent his disobedience and rather gloried in it, even tho’ he had been whipp’d for it, Thomas had not written in a while and of Richard it was said that he was, at fourteen a lad who was quite wild in his ways, to the point his parents had thought of sending him away so that he might be Corrected under the headship of a stern headmaster.

His thoughts were torn between going to Church or going to Drink; usually the two only Comforts he found worthwhile. But before he could make up his mind whether to watch wine being translated into the Blood of Christ or alternatively the high spirits of the imbiber of said substance in a less holy setting, his glance fell to the chest left behind by Miss Spinckes, hurriedly packed with the edge of a fichu still hanging out.

Convincing himself he had only opened it to put the edge of fine linen with delicate embroidery back in, the sight of her cloaths pierced his heart with the might of an enemy cannonball as Cherished Memories struck him of her body wearing these things, and how he had pull’d them off her. Her shift, somewhat damp from having been worn after bathing, was still not dry and comfortless, when on her body, it had felt like the most Divine piece of Cloth enwrapping the Most Divine Woman he had ever seen. In his hand, cold and damp, it felt dead.

The chest with its cloaths pack’d with such a lively negligence One might almost suppose its owner would come back within a second to take something out or right the disorderly state of the things Within, stirred his memories, and he recalled how two years ago, he had sold off or given away Mrs Graves’ things.

Elizabeth had been a tasteful woman, and had owned much more cloaths than he would ever have estimated during her lifetime; only when he had come to review with her maid her worldly possessions he had realiz’d the sheer amount of fans and fichus, pompadours and trinkets she had had- then dresses, shifts, paniers, several pairs of stays, petticoats for winter and summer, jackets, riding-attire, day- and evening-attire, hats and all that.

One last time, he had seen her life before him, assembled in her habitual and less habitual accoutrements from a gown kept from the time when they had been wed that had gone out of fashion a while ago and had lain forgotten somewhere to the shoes he remembered having bought her for her birthday one year to the wrapper she had sometimes worn to bed, and which had always felt soft and warm with her skin beneath it.

Some of it had gone to cloath the local poor, such as the shifts and warm petticoats, but many things had been sold, and some friends of hers he had allowed to pick for themselves any items they wanted to remember their friend by also. He had no use for her things and the sight of her temporal belongings had been too much to bear for him to view daily, resulting in a feeling of relieved gladness when he was rid of them.

As if the sheer power of his Brokenness could retrieve Margaret, and conjure her up from thin air if only he spent enow thoughts on her, he press’d her shift to his heart and shed a few unmanly tears.

He had lost Elizabeth in a similar manner, she had gone from him forever, too. At least for her it was a Relief, and he could be assured she, for all her goodness, would be sitting at the side of the Lord and reaped the heavenly rewards of a life lived in Christian piety and to the maxims of those truly Good not only in deeds, but in the heart also.

Margaret had left him, and he could not even have told her adieu, or had anything to remember her by. She had left without a word, without a message- he could write to her. He knew where she dwelt, it was not too far, and he could put the letter with her things.

Quickly, for not knowing when the person collecting her belongings would arrive, he set about to write her, negligent and sloppy in his handwriting that spoke of his Agitation and the speed with which he compos’d it.

  


_~~My~~ _ _dear Miss Spinckes,_

_Your Absence has left me in Great Despair. I woke to find you gone, and must now question myself Why you have left me without another word._

_My Eloquence is limited, and I must apologise for the simplicity of my words that lack the wit and well-spokenness you must be accustomed to, but what they lack in artful description, they surely must make up in Trueness of the heart and Sincerity of any Emotion embedded in them: your Absence this morning left me longing for you, and equally asking myself if I had done you wrong or why else you might have felt compelled to leave._

_You are welcome wherever I stay, be it in these present Lodgings, my Westminster house or in Devonshire and my most esteem’d guest whenever it Pleases You to visit any of the aforementioned places._

_If I did wrong or offended you, perhaps due to the Nature of our rendez-vous and the amorous gestures exchang’d, I beg your forgiveness but must also tell you that you have wounded me._

_I am wounded, but not badly enow to succumb to my injury, which is of the Heart. You must think me hasty for writing so and intirely ungentlemanly for my Frankness, but your person has grown dear to my heart, and I had previously hoped when we had lain together, that you might have thought similarly, tho’ I see now that you do not, or not in a similar manner._

_If you do not keep me in your heart with the tenderness of a Lover, allow me to offer you my Perpetual and Eternal Friendship, in whose light I shall always remember you._

_Yours truly,_

_Saml. Graves_

More than a week went by without a word from her; a dull, grey week, in which, despite all the divertissements Bath had to offer, Samuel’s mind was ever with the letter he had written and the Lady it had been address’d to.

She liked him not, so much was certain; it had been that night, and that night only in which they had lov’d each other and there could never be more.

He tried to be grateful for having been allowed to experience that tender night, the walks and other activities they had shared, but to think so was cold comfort; it did nothing to alleviate the raincloud he suspected hanging over his head in a very literal sense and for all to see.

Friends and acquaintances who invited him and whom he half-heartedly invited back commented on his glum mien and ask’d him if business was bad, or if the Navy had anything to do with his current Mood, to which he answered that neither was the case, and that at times, it must be permitted for a man to be unhappy for reasons he might not wish to disclose.

Naturally, some gentlemen posed questions destined to ascertain the nature of his unhappiness and aimed their interrogation directly at the assumption that a woman was the brutal Causer of his miserableness, he however refused to answer them and cited his age as a major reason why he would not be lovesick, for he was not a stupid boy anymore and a man of Sense, a widower at that, who would not like to experience this most melancholy, most hurtful loss that is the loss of a spouse ever again.

He drank too much, and he knew it from the pounding in his head he woke up to; he went whoring once or twice more, but Rose with the bouncing bubbies had been engag’d in amorous combat each time, and for some reason, that had vexed him considerably, too. He couldn’t have the woman he had come to realize he lov’d, and neither could he have the Cyprian he would like to enjoy and was even willing to pay for.

A blonde with a sturdy frame bore the brunt of his angry Passions instead, whom he arranged in such poses that her face would not be visible to him, and regretted it immediately after when she rose to her knees and took a deep breath she did not even intend to conceal from him, a wordless means of shewing him with defiance that it had been not very comfortable on her end, and he wonder’d if not perhaps Margaret, too, had felt suffocated by him, tho’ in a rather different, less literal manner.

Whenever he took to sinning with his body, he tried to think of Rose, whose ministrations he was denied by her being occupied at present, tried to think of her full bottom and bouncing bubbies, even her face contorted in a false mask of Rapture, painted lips half-apart to reveal a set of decent enough teeth, but every attempt was foil’d by his own brain that interrupted the scene with an image of Margaret Spinckes’ face- she was not even frowning disapprovingly at him; the mere Sight of Her made him more angry and passionate, and at the same time sated his desire quite definitively for the rest of the night and saddened him. He would finish, eventually, under much troubles, red in the face and perspiring greatly, shewing the exertion it had taken him to spend, and thus preferr’d to leave hurriedly before he decided it was of no use, associating with the Merry Ladies of The Trade and found more fulfilment in glumly staring through the window, at the street below.

For a change of direction, he strained his slowly waning eyesight reading pamphlets of the Moral sort; cheaply-printed religious works, short, by the theologians currently favor’d, but found no comfort in this pursuit either.

Bath, Life, was a farce, and at the end of the week, he decided he would be happier in the relative Seclusion of Devonshire, among the Blackdowns and his books, and perhaps, if he was lucky, he’d receive a letter from the Admiralty stating his Service was needed and he could Forget on board of a ship, surrounded by a trusty crew and fight some Enemy he didn’t know yet.

-For some reason, he felt a lot like sinking an enemy ship, mercilessly hail it with cannonballs and then set fire to it, and watch it burn and sink to the ocean floor.

Unwittingly, his rather sudden departure had play’d a trick on him he would only later come to realize when his landlady, after having settled in his household again where Cook’s culinary accomplishments, meaty pies and sweet deserts mainly, worked their magick in restoring at least some form of contentment to him by filling the void in his heart with immoderate amounts of the products of her craft, forwarded him letters that had arriv’d for him still under his then-address at Bath; there were bills to pay, naturally, a few invitations whose dates had already pass’d and, at the bottom of the small pile-

The neat handwriting that said _Rear-Adm. Samuel Graves — Place Bath_ made his heart jump.

With shaking hands, he impatiently broke the seal to find the paper he unfolded covered in neat lines. Should he dare to hope, or would it be futile to do so? Anguish took hold of him as he began to read what he cautioned himself into thinking must be a farewell-letter.

 

_Aldwinckle: Jan ry: 5: 1769:_

_Dear Sir,_

_I receiv’d your letter and am sorry for my reply coming so late, but as you must be able to imagine, finding the Right Words for what needs to be said on my part after our sudden acquaintance and the night which you will remember as well as I do._

_As to your letter, I burned it, for its content may scarcely be seen by any member of my Household, which consists not only of servants, but of my Mother also, and whom I do not wish to inform about my breach of morality._

_It is with a heavy heart that I must tell you that I am not, in fact, your lover or your friend, for we have known each other too shortly to be either._

_I am remembering you in a spirit of amicability, as a gentleman, but cannot offer more at present; my Station and decision to remain a respectable person holding true to Her Ideals did not allow me at Bath to pursue the path a Secret part of my mind quietly hoped for and that aligns with yours._

_I must sound very cruel to you, and I hope it eases your smart when I say that I will always remember you fondly and that I cannot write this letter without feeling excessive regret myself._

_But a scandal should have been rather disadvantageous to both of us, and our reputations, and you must surely understand my position, bound to my principles and duties as you are to yours. I thus thought it most prudent to leave, before any peculiar remarks about our frequent meetings or worse still, our shared night could have been made publick._

_Perhaps a Friendship can, tho’ only through letters, be establish’d- your generally Good Character and your tenderness shewed to me your commitment in this Endeavour, as does your letter, that touched me very much._

_You did not wrong me, Sir- indeed, and I must preface this with the directive to destroy my letter after reading it, your tenderness was much appreciated and injoyed it in a manner I have not savoured Rapture ever before. It is almost foolish to write so in a letter, that can be lost or opened by strange parties, which alone shall prove my sincerity._

_Most truly Yours,_

_M gt Spinckes_

She had not forgotten him, nor had she wished to forget him, and she had injoyed their night together as much as he had. He would do no such thing and burn this precious letter, to him dearer than the prize money that had made him a gentleman of wealth, and in that fit of resurging Passion, even dearer than his own life.

Press’d to his chest, it was but a paltry substitute for the woman whose hand had stroak’d the paper while dragging the quill across the page to give her words form and figure with ink, yet at the same time, this simple piece of paper was more than he had dared to hope for and ignited his dim spirits.

Miss Spinckes, Margaret, was not his friend, she said, but wish’d to be- he knew what she meant and in truth, she had known him not very long and vice versa.

At the same time however, they knew each other in a very different, more intimate manner, and her body was known to him now- but not her soul in its intirety, he knew. She did not like comedies, so much was certain, thought it very important to be always dress’d most advantageously and fashionably, but at the same time was a great friend of Education and Sense; she was a person who either supported something with all her heart, or not at all; she was not softly-spoken but direct, and perhaps even revelled in the knowledge that her manner of addressing others was sometimes seen by people who were not acquainted to her as intimidating. She was a thornback, living with her Mother, and had a niece, so she had a brother or sister, who had a little daughter around the age Young Graves, John, had been when he had come to step into the boy’s father’s shoes.

-And, to change the perspective, what did she know of him? He was an admiral in the Navy, of Devonshire, but originally an Irishman by birth, tho’ his forefathers had been English before taking root in the county of Londonderry and intermarrying with the local population, which she had likely guess’d by his speech long before he had told her. He was old and widowed, and had a host of nephews and a godson whom he thought of as his own almost.

That was not very much indeed on both sides; a True Friend should know more than that.

 

_Hembury Fort, January 17 th 1768._

_My dear Miss Spinckes,_

_Your friendship shall be most Dear to me, once I obtained it and with gladness I have heard that my actions to cause you the same Rapture you have spoken of proved to your liking, for I recall the same night with fondness over and over, and thank you more for it than you can imagine._

_As your friend-to-be, allow me to confide in you that I worry for my godson, who is very sickly. His health is frail and it is suspected his lungs are not healthy, and never were- the thought terrifies me, for I fear his Young Life might be lost in vain should he succumb to what would in others be call’d a Common Cold, and not only deprive the World of a fine young gentleman, but his poor widowed mother of her only son also and similarly me of the boy I helped rearing to the best of my knowledge and abilities in the Memory of his dearly departed Father, my Friend, whom I promised at the Baptismal fount to take care of his son if Fate should ever incapacitate him to do so._

_Since he was seven I have been at his side, have been witness to his more and less memorable moments of the good and bad kind alike, and would not like to see him depart this world before me, who is old already and should be much closer to Death than he._

_But enow of my grief, I must never dampen your spirits- the snowdrops begin to grow and provide a pretty sight. There are such numbers of them and so early as I have never seen before in previous years and were I an able artist, I would sketch the scene for you to have an image to judge by whether you have seen any more in one spot or no._

_How is your niece? One hopes that at least one of us might have good news, and as I understand that you are in frequent contact with the little girl, you will hopefully be able to tell me that at least one child is well and above all, healthy._

_At Honiton, I recently observ’d a Tragedy in the Greek style at the playhouse; it pleased me well, but was not of the same Quality as one would expect at Bath or London._

_A friend of London has confided in me he has had Intelligence that the Countess of G— and the Duke of C— are said to have been caught_ in flagrante delicto, _or such is in any way the talk. For my part, I am not a man to talk of such things much, or give them much credence until proven._

_The Vicar Mr Toplady has visited, and his sermons aside which often have an Uplifting quality, is a good conversationist. He is a man whose word is Genuine, and whose Sense must be admir’d. He argues Man must be kind to beasts, for they too, being part of Our Lord’s Creation, go to Heaven. Such arguing was novel to me intirely, but a debate worth spending a thought on._

_One hopes you have many such fruitful discussions to consider, of which I am certain for your home must, under the care of so opinionated and well-read a mistress, surely be the chief Court of Northamptonshire._

_Your ob. Sv t._

_Sam Graves_

_Aldwinckle, Jan ry: 21: 1769:_

_Dear Mr Graves,_

_How melancholy you are- I hope your godson shall be well soon, and will, I am sure of it for tho’ he might seem frail, one should never underestimate the health of the young; it is more robust than meets the eye and you describe him as a fellow who will not be deterred by anything and hardy, which heightens my hopes that his health shall be restored._

_My niece is very well indeed- she enjoys her dancing-master and rides well, but reads, writes and speaks French even better; Miss Smith, her governess, is much challenged to amuse her with her lessons, for she is bright and will tire with boredom when the governess does not proffer a more difficult question or problem._

_I wish I could view the snowdrops; it is too cold here for any to shew; one lives in hope of warmer weather…_

Each day for the next two months, he awaited the coming of letters with impatient delight, even when he had receiv’d one the day before and it would have been nonsensical to think she would write to him again so soon.

Finding the right topics to discuss, things to tell her she might find interesting or amusing- or alternatively _, outrageous_ proved quite difficult, but he delighted in her replies even when she dismissed a theory or thelike as a “pack of nonsense”.

To write her, set pen to paper was equally the greatest joy and the greatest causer of anxiousness, torment and happiness combin’d.

He wrote back imediatly almost always, within a day of receiving the letter, that is, but not before contemplating hers thoroughly and analyzing every word thrice.

Kept in his pocket, he would carry her prosaic effectuations around with him, then read them on a whim when his mind for no apparent reason turn’d to her and  gentle flame started to consume his heart.

The desert, the void in his heart and soul he had felt so painfully be the momentary loss of her and had tried to fill in vain with other things, was no more; altho’ she lacked Physical Form, a walk in the garden while contemplating a letter by Margaret Spinckes gave him the greatest joy: in his head, the words he had read a dozen times resounded in her voice and it appeared to him as if each golden sunbeam and little bird shared his joy.

She was absent from him, but beside him whenever he only reminded himself of one of her letters which he carried around in his pocket.

Never did he breathe a word of his unexpected happiness to anyone, not thinking it necessary nor willing to do so. In his own mind, the conclusion dawned on him one day in Honiton, when he had gone to find flighty amusement in the Play-House: he would ne’er be able to tell what did it, but when he climbed out of the carriage and looked around, viewed town and townspeople for a moment, he was suddenly certain that he could not stay her letter-friend, for that they had to be by now.

The feeling in his heart when he wrote to her was not friendship, well, not Friendship of the kind he knew he ought to feel for her, the brotherly kind, the same with which he had thought of his younger sister Olivia when they had been children and he the only barrier between her and the raucousness of their older brothers.

He did not like her. Not one bit. And a gentleman, he resolved, must never lie, wherefore he decided to tell the driver to turn around and bring him back to the Fort, the Theatre forgotten; all the way, he fought in a dialogue of Thoughts whether what he intended to do was wise and honest or foolish and improper.

Still feeling like a schoolboy caught at some base mischief, he locked himself into his room and gave order to the newly-return’d Stephens not to let any man disturb him or by Jove the Unfortunate would come to know the true Meaning of the word Suffering.

This task required his thoughts to be assembled in one place, concentrated and eager. By no means was he a genius of the written word, and had overall, despite valuing Education much, never found any pleasure in the ancient words of Cicero and other orators- she would have to take his words unpolished, rough as they came from his heart to his hand.

_Dear Margaret_ ,

He wrote, and considered the exuberant verve with which he had brought the _M_ of _Margaret_ onto the paper rather artistic. Never before had he addressed her so exceedingly informally in writing, and therefore wanted her to be reconcil’d with his breech of protocol at considering the tender elegance he had tried to put into writing her name.

Satisfied with the overture, he hoped she would enjoy acts one, two, and three- a swig of liquid courage in the form of a bottle of sherry he had drunken from without ceremony after emptying the ridiculously small glass Stephens had served the drink in, he (aware of his self-confinement) wiped his mouth on the back of his sleeve without ceremony, cleared his throat and read out the first two little words he had already written:

_Dear Margaret,—_

_Dear Margaret— what?_

As the daylight waned, more words started to join Margaret Spinckes’ name on the page.

_Dear Margaret,_

_Never in my life have I written a billet-doux, and am certain my present letter shall not prove a worthy representative of that species._

_I write to you not under the pretence of news that are not news and flatteries that have been exchang’d before, I write to you straight from my heart, which I beg you to recognize and accept my words as they come Rough in expression but True in nature._

_For no longer can I withhold the Truth from you- you are not my friend, Margaret, and cannot be._

_And yet You are my friend- to confide in you and exchange with you all that I know gives me much joy, and to have you partake of my life and allow me to partake in yours via the Written Word is the greatest gift I have ever receiv’d._

_That and the memory of your kiss will never leave me, nor more debauched things, when we embrac’d, the Tenderness that was between us, convince me of the Need to tell you that I cannot pledge my Friendship, which we so carefully nurtur’d, to you any longer._

_I must retract it and humbly offer to you in return the next best thing, I hope:_

_L-_

For one moment, his pen halted, quivering, and producing an unsightly blot at the bottom of the letter, where an O waited to be added.

_Love_ , he wrote, and his heart felt lighter and heavier at once when he looked at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since Samuel's country seat will come up time and again, here's the background story on Hembury Fort House: he purchased the entire estate around 1750, with the original house burning down either shortly before or shortly after the change of owners taking place. Samuel proceeded to errect the current Hembury Fort House- and gave it the name we know it by. Before, the old house and estate had been known as "Cockenhays"- it's not hard to see why he would have wanted a more elegant name for his home. 
> 
> Sam's signature: reading through his naval correspondence, I relised Samuel uses different ways to sign letters: a) his full name "Samuel Graves", b) the abbreviations Saml. or Sam. Graves and c) Sam Graves.  
> It looks like he used c) as opposed to the more "official" a) and b) when he knew the person well or was close to them (friends/relations). 
> 
> Augustus Toplady (1740-1778) was vicar of Broadhembury and is today mostly known for having written a few well-known hymns. As Samuel says in his letter, Toplady believed that animals have souls, too and people should stop being cruel to animals.


	8. Margaret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaret receives a letter and learns how nosy kids can be...

“Miss Periwinkle, how like you your tea? –It is very good, thank you, Miss Polly.”

Seated on the Axminster at Margaret’s feet was her Niece, dressed very prettily in saffron-coloured dress that complimented well her flood of, due to her being in the home to-day barely restrained thick, dark hair that had not quite been able to decide whether it wanted to be brown or black, and depending on the light, look’d either like One or the Other.

The child, playing quietly with two dolls (one of them supposed to imitate a lady in a gown of lilac, hence the name) almost resembled one herself; too small for her age and fine-boned, there was not much that set her apart from the playthings she engag’d in a mock-conversation  except, most ironically, her size and the lively hazel eyes that sat in her porcelain face of distinctive features and had the propensity of a most profound gaze that caused Margaret to wonder at times, when their Gaze was fix’d on her, whether they belonged to a Child at all.

At present, the little girl played quietly, sitting rigidly upright with one doll on either side in front of her. If she interpreted the Scene correctly, it was some sort of informal _pique-nique_ the three dolls, one of them a human child, attended with Elizabeth, with her dress billowing around her in a manner that evoked the image of a buttercup in a meadow, as hostess.

She was perfectly ignorant of her audience, which enhanced the sereneness and pristine innocence of the scene even more. Such moments of quiet domesticity brought her as much joy as she found in lively debates, tho’ of a different kind; to be all alone and view her little girl, sit in the parlour and read her letter, which by the scrawl that was supposed to be her name, she guess'd was a new message from Graves-

O! She had almost forgotten her letter! Scolding herself for her forgetfulness, Margaret directed her attention away from her niece to the letter she held in her hands and broke the seal.

As soon as the paper was unfolded, the child sitting on the ground before her was forgotten.

His handwriting, which had always been disorderly, changed from handsome enough to barely legible over the course of the document, with the last sentences in particular scrawled in either a lacklustre or agitated manner.

Wondering at the inconsistency (perhaps he had been in haste to finish it in order to have it gone with the next post?), she did not quite yet remark upon individual words, which heightened her Shock even more:

_…I must retract it and humbly offer to you in return the next best thing, I hope: Love._

_For I love you, Margaret, with a tenderness you will find is unmatch’d. It is the rarest Sensation of all, to Love as I Love you, so deeply that on some days I am wont to believe that All the World Is and Turns because you Exist, and that Nothing can be without You but Eternal Darkness._

_Like a Flower surpriz’d by late snow my heart withers in your Absence from me, longing desperatly for the Sunshine of your Countenance-_

“Aunt?”

A feeble little voice interrupted her, audibly hesitant, and caused her to put down the letter in her lap.

Elizabeth looked up at her, the dolls now lifelessly discarded, lying dead on either side of her, like soldiers shot on the battlefield and left where they had fallen.

The child’s gaze sent shivers down her spine; even the most compleat dunce could tell the girl was, in some ways, not like other children when she looked at someone like that.

It had been agreed upon between her and her Mother that after her sister’s death, the child named in honour of her memory and that of her deceased father should grow up unaffected by the tragic loss of her parents ere she was even a full day old; she would have Family, the Gwillims and Spinckes’ would communally take care of her and she would not want a thing surrounded by those who loved her.

And yet, a dark Cloud had attached itself to her, followed her around; a shadow, a dark knowledge of the misfortune of her birth had come to shew itself whenever the girl was sad or upset. It was then a mysterious foreboding gloom resided in the hazel of her eyes that came to resemble bottomless dark wells filled with vague notions of the half-stories she knew, sketches coloured in with the vivid palette of colours available in her Mind. Perhaps it had been imprudent to name her Posthuma: some argu’d that _nomen atque omen_ , and if so, it was true in the case of little Elizabeth Posthuma.

No more was said by the girl, chiefly because she had been taught well and knew not to pry into the matters of others, least of all her elders, and ask inquisitive questions. Instead, she continued to look at her aunt, expecting bad news.

“All is well, child”, Margaret thus tried to soothe the child’s mind and reached out to stroak the girl’s hair with her free hand, but Elizabeth’s face remained doubtful.

“I receiv’d a letter from a friend”, she thus tried to answer the question the child was not allowed to ask, "he is sick.”

Her niece nodded with the gravitas of an old reverend and asked: “is it very bad?”, when all of a sudden Childhood’s  hitherto suppressed Inquisitiveness trump’d Manners.

“No, I don’t think so”, Margaret replied. “It is an affliction of the heart.”

“O, but is it not dangerous then?”

Instinctively, a tiny hand came to rest on her own chest, feeling where underneath the saffron-coloured gown and stays a little heart beat.

Sweet Innocence and an Education as thorough as the fortune of two Families could buy came to Margaret’s aid. Elizabeth’s most literal interpretation of so common a saying prompted her to go with it rather than educate the child on matters of the heart. She would grow up soon enow, and if she would turn out only half as pretty as her mother, she would come to knew the advances of young men and become adept in refusing them. There was no need to trouble her with concepts and matters that were of no concern to her at present, and Margaret would rather have had her playing with dolls and going sketching with her governess a while longer, a notion of protectiveness amplified by the fact that her niece was too small for her age and looked younger than her years- at least from afar. Whoever heard the little girl talk would think she was as old as the hills and streams of England.

“No, not at all. I think he will recover soon.”

-Would he?

A half-content Elizabeth turned to her dolls again but her play was half-hearted. She had lost interest, and pretended more than she was actually playing, looking up at her every now and then, perhaps in hopes of catching a fleeting glance at the paper she still held in her lap.

“Smith”, she therefore called for the governess, a mouse-like little woman in demure dress with a much too low voice that shook every time she addressed her, but was apt to handle children and possessed a magnanimous sense of patience Margaret found admirable in others, but lacked herself.

“Take Miss Elizabeth for a walk. Sketch, or interrogate her on her vocabulary, whatever you deem appropriate.”

Smith proceeded to take Elizabeth by the hand, who did not resist, but made her defiant reluctance felt by rising a little too slowly. The defiance she practic’d was almost unnoticeable, and altho’ Margaret understood the girl’s actions in exactly the way she wanted them to be interpreted, one could not punish her for a transgression that was almost invisible- or invisible to all save her.

“Come on, Miss”, Smith cooed encouragingly, almost as if leading a very big, very naughty horse that had decided to stop in the middle of the road, “now, what does _la jambe_ mean?”

Her method of distraction bore no fruits, rather withered in the blossom: “ _Ça veut dire_ the leg _en anglais._ ”

“And _die Blume_?”

The change of language could not occupy Elizabeth’s mind sufficiently to take her thoughts off the letter and the unknown man who was evidently Gravely ill with an affliction that affected his heart.

“ _Aber der Brief-_ ”

“ _Nein._ Hush, now, Miss. We don’t want to disturb Miss Spinckes-“

“But-“

Howevermuch her Niece objected, Miss Smith remained firm and manag’d to get the girl out. Hopefully, the outdoors would settle her thoughts on different things, as it usually did; for a well-behaved little girl, Elizabeth enjoyed the outside almost too enthusiastically and could be trusted to be easily distracted once let loose upon Nature.

With the letter still in her left hand press'd against her thigh so firmly as if it was his own hand, which in a way, the letter was a memento of since his hand must have touch’d the page Writing it and the Writing one produces on paper also being called one’s hand.

Graves. She wanted to be angry with him, but could not. Entirely too early, she retreated to her room, to be certain of total solitude, and unfolded the letter there again. Carelessly almost, she toss’d her body on the bed, uncaring about the creases her action would consequentially produce or the fact that only a slovenly woman lies in bed in the afternoon.

_…your Countenance, and more still not only to behold, but hold you, as firmly as I did only once, and give you in that tight embrace all that you may want of me, and all that I can give You, which I hope is enow. Sweet desire rises in me whenever I think of that day at Bath, of Your Kiss and the profound connexion of mind and body-_

_Profound connexion of mind and body_? The man had not lied when he had warned her of his eloquence or rather lack thereof but oddly, Margaret could not find a single line to write back that she would have thought of as a fitting, witty and cuttingly sharp reply ordering him never to lay open any delicate information for all to see in a letter again. She could not, and rather felt heat rise in her abdomen, dispreading throughout her body, making her restless.

To her shame, she had often thought back to the same night he more than alluded to and could not deny she had liked it, and cherished the memory still. ‘Twas not the Novelty of Knowing a man, which by all accounts in most cases was a most trivial act govern’d by Animalistic urges as was reported by most women, and she was certain that it must have look’d undignified to the naked eye of a stranger what she and Graves had done, yet it had elicited Feeling and Emotion of unknown quality. Maybe there was some Right in Graves’ words, perhaps there had been a connexion that day, but had it persisted?

In frustration she laid one leg across the other and attempted to find a more comfortable pose to lie in.

Graves’ inability to practice discretion should upset her, for should the details of his letter have come to light through either ill will or unfortunate circumstances, she would have been made the laughing stock of Society, unable to shew her head in London or Bath without falling Victim to scrutinizing glances and the sniggering of those who engaged in similar arrangements, more frequently even than her only time, and with men of Greater Consequence than her Irish Sailor, happy Fate had struck another and eager to hide their evil grimaces of Pharisaism behind a veil of propriety, which consisted of making mockery of their own kind.

It should have upset her- but it did not. Instead, she had been mov’d greatly by his words and was surpriz’d he had so clearly stated his Thoughts and Feelings.

She was fond of him, too. Very fond even- she liked him better than any of the other gentlemen who had ever courted her, and well enow that she had broken the vow she had made to herself, never to marry or lie with a man, for him. Granted, it did not have much effect now that she was certain of not needing to fear any Consequences anymore, but still, a vow meant to last a lifetime was not so easily broken.

_…of mind and body- my Dear Margaret, I long for you in your intirety, Body and Soul, which together have never form’d a more advantageous Person than You-_

Even in her confused state, Margaret could not help but snort- if there was one device of elegant speech he had learned to employ, it was the Blatant Euphemism of the Most Trite and Obvious Kind. Nothing about her appearance was markedly extraordinary; her features were regular and her build naturally slender, tho’ age had loosened the firmness of her flesh and added some in places where had been less in her youth, she was Educated, tho’ held Opinions, which put Men - and many women - rather off her (she did not mind and would never have wanted to associate with That Sort) and danced tolerably well. To boot, she stood to co-inherit Old Court together with her Niece and was rich enow in her own right not to need to rest ill over pecuniary woes at night.

-But that was not what Graves meant, it struck her. He did not speak of her advantages, nor of her disadvantages, he liked her for herself. He liked _her_.

-And despite everything that spoke against him, she liked him very well, too.

_…You- forgive me the frankness of my speech, which was altogether too forward, but I could not remain silent any longer, or else my heart would have Burst with the Excess of Adoration stor’d there for You Only. I see that it must be hard for you to accept these words, and given their nature I do not expect you to reply to them- but know my Dear Margaret, that I shall keep you forever in my Heart, and will, if you wish it so, fly to your side by the next carriage- a word only is enow, and I will be with you._

_Most affectionatly yr._

_Sam Graves_

 

 _Sam Graves_ ’ words rung in her ears as if he had said them aloud and was near her. He would certainly not fly to her side by the next carriage, never would she permit that, but despite her better judgement, her heart was set on seeing him again.

His bold bravery was impressive, his openness laudable, his words, tho’ not very refined, touching. The confidential lines filled with intimate thoughts and memories destined for Margaret’s eyes only reminded her of all she had seen in this man in whom she had not supposed would be so much to see in; the shallow puddle had shewn her he was an Ocean indeed, more tempestuous and wild than she had thought, from his forward letter to their secret night at Bath, when she had allowed him to bed her.

No woman ought ever act as foolishly as she had, and often had she scolded herself for having done it, for having given herself to Graves, yet while she condemn’d her recklessness and could only pray it would never be found out by anyone, the wild bliss and Rapture she had injoyed had been, without wishing to blaspheme, nothing short of near-Heavenly delight, if such was possible on Earth.

On some nights, lonely and safe from View, she wish’d for his company even, or, at least dreamt of it in hypothetical terms that were never to be, to renew their adventure and afterward, to lie there together without saying a word with the warmth of th’other and a pair of almost chastely entwined hands as symbols of a desire that transcended mere carnality and went straight to the heart.

Was it love? It had to be. She had never fallen in love before, not in this fashion, at least; as girls, Elizabeth and she had look’d upon handsome gentlemen and later discuss’d how their hearts had fluttered when one of them, often scarcely older than themselves, had smiled back with the shy beam of a Country Squire or the practic’d Smirk of a London Rogue. Flirtation however was a girlhood sport not played well by women past the age of twenty-five, when Age conquers All and looks diminish.

At her age, she knew full well that she no longer caught the eye of beaus, nor did she want it: the Young and Fashionable were often excessively tiring in their shallow views of themselves, dress’d in the latest fashions, but revealing their minds to be strippt bare of any Sense, Opinion, or Wit worth hearing express’d as soon as they opened their mouths.

In the Admiral, she saw other things; he did not please the eye very well, but he pleased her soul in ways no-one before head, oddly enow even when he displeased her, a frequent occurrence during their brief time at Bath.

-And he saw Things in her, too, which was quite evident from his letter.

Love, she had always imagined, was a pebble-beach, from which one aimed to pluck the one diamond among dull grey stones. Some settled for a garnet, or an emerald; others were tricked to pick up a piece of charred coal or fool’s gold while some like her avoided the beach altogether to walk upon the high road above, looking down upon the searching and wondering if it was worth the trouble, bruises and other injuries obtain’d from slipping on the sea-wet stones.

Yet it was not so: she had not searched, and yet had found, and at the same time been found by the same person.

She would have to reply to him, and would do so as speedily as she would find words to put her momentary state in.

For her mother and Niece, Margaret forced herself to play the Indifferent, and pretended to a if not chearful, but at least pleasant frame of mind when sat with them at dinner when in truth her head was fill’d with thoughts of contradicting nature; all revolving around Graves.

Elizabeth, freshly cloath’d for the occasion in a pale blue gown with only very demure trimmings, suddenly piped in the voice typical of young children who view not the harm of asking a delicate question:

“Do you think your friend is better, Aunt Margaret?”

Margaret would almost have dropped her fork, but managed to catch herself just in time before her clumsiness could give away how much this question affected her in the heart.

“I am sure she is”, she answered quickly before asking Elizabeth if she wanted some more to drink, for her cup was empty.

Instead of answering her question however, the little Judas disguised as an orphan girl observed in a confused tone: “was your friend not a gentleman?”

The little, treacherous toad- the girl, tho’ innocent in her intentions, was too intelligent and perceptive for her own good and had, albeit unwittingly, signed her aunt’s death warrant.

“Yes”, she thus conceded through gritted teeth, “I must have made an error of speech.”

“You must keep him in your prayers, Aunt, for the Lord shall hear them and help him if you do”, the child advised, giving out her spiritual advice in a pompous tone and serious manner that made her wonder briefly if she was indeed sat at a table with her niece, or if the latter was the Archbishop of Canterbury in a clever disguise.

“I shall”, she replied curtly before buying time by putting a well-siz’d piece of potato into her mouth and chewing it for a long while, so as to avert having to answer even more questions.

However, her Inquisition had barely begun: the Papist custom of continuing an Interrogation under great pain until the Right Answers were given was continu’d by her Mother, who had found interest in the conversation:

“Is it young Walcot?”

Only too gladly would Margaret have pip’d “yes” imediatly, but that was impossible, for had it been Walcot, she would not have spoken of her ‘friend’- the boy was scarcely a man, and although Polite and amiable, hardly a friend given their distance in age alone. Had the sick man been William Walcot, she would have given Elizabeth his name, for she knew the boy nine years her senior well; he was of a patient and gentle disposition and surprisingly fond of Elizabeth, in a brotherly manner, which was perhaps amplified by the fact that both were without siblings of their own blood, and had thus formed a similar arrangement.

“No, it is not”, Margaret answered, praying to be released from the interrogation soon.

“His father then?”

Again, Margaret negated.

“It is nobody you know, an acquaintance, from Bath. Nobody of consequence, at all.”

Her mother’s face bore the same unconvinc’d Expression as her niece’s, but thankfully, she restricted herself to a doubtful glance, that asked more questions than a lady should ever ask.

Naturally, she could and would not punish Elizabeth for her not keeping her quiet, for how should the girl have known? If only her niece were less inquisitive and perceptive of Human Nature, Margaret thought longingly, a wishful thought.

Her wits were as sharp as the somewhat unfortunate line of her chin that was a little too pointed to belong into a child’s face, the which should ideally be round and rose-cheek’d to look pretty; instead, Elizabeth, whom she could not help but compare to a doll, bore greater resemblance to an adult shrunken to the size of a little girl.

“You like your friend very well, don’t you, Aunt?” a demure little voice asked.

“I do. He is very dear to me.”

“As dear as Grandmama or I?”, Elizabeth, visibly worried somewhat, wanted to know.

“Never”, Margaret replied imediatly and bade her good-night before retiring with a fit of migraine herself. Her mother looked thoroughly unconvinc’d, blabbering about there being something she would not disclose and that was troubling her, and she was correct.

Before she could not for herself tell how to proceed, what to say or even think, nobody else would find out about her sentimental attachment to Graves, and all that it might mean.

Did not her love for him betray all ideals she had ever held? And what about Elizabeth? There were too many questions to rejoice and press the letter to her bosom like a girl having received a billet-doux from her first Fond Friend, answers to be found which she could not find at present, and most importantly, there was a letter to be written.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nomen atque omen: “the name is also premonition”, from Plautus (c. 250–184 BC) “Persa”, from which derived the more famous “nomen est omen”. In Elizabeth’s case, this seems to have been the case- “The Posthumous” survived almost everyone she loved, including five of her eleven children and lived to 87, dying in January of 1850. 
> 
> The lingo:  
> La jambe: the leg  
> “Ça veut dire” etc.: “That means “the leg” in English.”  
> Die Blume: the flower  
> “Aber der Brief-”: “But the letter-“   
> Elizabeth learned French and German as a child, and later taught herself Spanish together with her best friend. The governess’ name, mentioned in one of Margaret’s letters from later life, was indeed Smith.  
> Margaret and Elizabeth were co-heiresses of the Old Court estate in Aldwinckle.   
> William Walcot (1753-1827) was a distant relative of Elizabeth and a friend of her future husband- which they only learned when Elizabeth and John became a couple. William Walcot would remain a friend to the family until his death and became a favourite “uncle” to Elizabeth’s children, whom he adored and often visited. During his last illness, the eldest, Eliza (1784-1865) moved in with him in order to be able to care for him and was often accompanied by one of her sisters. Since he died childless, he made the Simcoe-children his heirs, with Henry, the only surviving son, inheriting a few properties and the daughters (plus Elizabeth) benefitting from the sale of the rest of his estate.


	9. Samuel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Way down in Devonshire, in the eighteenth century  
> A fine old couple they lived there named Sam and Peggy  
> They were going to have a party on their Golden Jubilee  
> Now Peggy says she to Samuel “come listen here to me”  
> “Put on your old knee-britches and your coat of navy blue  
> Take off that hat me darlin' Sam, put on your dancing shoe  
> For today's our Golden Wedding and I want them all to know  
> Just how we looked when we were wed,  
> Two hundred and fifty years ago.”
> 
> ...almost two weeks ago on the 14th, Samuel and Margaret would have celebrated their 250th anniversary (sorry for bending a perfectly good song to suit my characters, by the way)- that calls for an extra-long chapter, doesn't it?

By mid-day, he was rather content with himself after having spent all morning with the steward in order to review the Business of the Estate, of which it was found several Improvements could be made with little Effort, something that pleas’d him well.

He liked his House well-run, with the same eye for details that was required of him aboard a Ship; the smallest crack might mean nothing, but, when going unnoticed and not maintain’d, might grow into a terrible leak. It was his duty not only to carry out the orders of the Admiralty, but to ensure the men under his command were well. The same was true of his tenants, and the servants of the Fort.

Having been out on horseback reviewing fences and barns, his mind was set on succulent roast pork, the which Cook prepar’d exceptionally well when he, by then having the pork already on his plate, was interrupted by a footman approaching with a letter that had arrived while he was out.

 _Margaret_ , was his only thought, and all hunger for such inconsequential things as roast pork was forgotten: had she replied? His letter had really been pritty forward, perhaps, if the letter truly was from her she was telling him off- it could only be found out by opening the letter, so he did- and smiled.

No triumph had ever felt sweeter, no victory more glorious, no promotion more flattering:

 

_…Perhaps if you should find it convenient to be at Bath by mid-March, I would not think it impossible we should meet._

_-M. S._

For more than a week, he had tried to busy himself and keep his mind off Margaret, of the near-love-letter he had compos’d, hoping to win her. In Battle he had learn’d that sometimes it was vital to be Bold; and wise men said that sometimes, Love required the same tactics as War.

Trusting in their judgement and his heart urging him to confess to her his true feelings in hopes she might reciprocate with an equally tender flame burning in her, as he recalled with great vividness, her most appealing bosom, he had put his pen to paper and did his best to express what he Felt.

A pessimistic part of him had supposed she would either not answer at all, or rebuke him most firmly- another, who recalled the Fire, Passion and Boldness the woman was made of, had allowed him to hope.

Margaret Lov’d him, even tho’ she used the word not in her letter; but he felt it, in each word, each letter form’d by her hand on the cream-coloured piece of paper he kept in his pocket as he had so far done with every letter by her, to allow him read it whenever he fancied; whenever he longed most for the Company of Margaret Spinckes, who had not only turned his head, but his heart.

Flirtations were flighty and short-liv’d; a man could injoy them, and he had in the past; had, when younger, looked over young women with an appealing décolletage or a fresh face, and let them flatter him in return when he told them how pritty they were, but such had ceased with age, for when Man’s salad days are over, such behaviour cannot be call’d anything but rude and positively off-putting.

He had been a flirtatious flatterer, a husband, a widower and could claim he knew All there was to know about the relations between man and woman and had considered it all finish’d with Mrs Graves’ death. Following her death and upon taking into account what he had learned about Marriage living through it, he had not considered re-marrying ever; yet now, he did.

The Fort was no house for one person to inhabit on his own; in fact, he had erected it two years after his marriage to the late Mrs Graves, to have a home for her and the children he had then thought of having; babes that would remain products of his imagination, little Wishes God had never granted them.

In their later years, when they had arranged themselves with the reality of Childlessness and had mended what they could between them, they had made the house a comfortable place of laughter and delights, invitations and merriment having dances and _cercles_ for the ladies, or card-parties and thelike.

Only the same day, when he and the steward had set out, he had thought how fine the house looked in the gilding sunlight.

Much he would have lik’d to share this splendid vista with Margaret, and realiz’d that he would share much more with her than that.

This ship was sailing fast for a foreign harbour, but there was wind in his sails and the sea calm- as calm as it would get with Miss Spinckes.

In her, he had found a friend of Rare Quality; someone to confide in, someone to Share Thoughts with he otherwise would not divulge to anyone, someone he cared about with tender fondness.

Samuel had no illusions; he was no Romantic, and not inclined towards notions such people as his young godson, who believed in tales of Knights and Dames, not even a well-spoken man, but that mattered not, for Miss Spinckes, Margaret, had made it clear she liked him well enow as he was, and the fact added to his confidence.

He would do it, the thing he had so far only thought about- perhaps, if the correct moment or opportunity should shew itself while in Bath.

Prior to his renewed journey to Bath however, he had to go to Exeter, where he resolved to employ a tailor to study the fashions and adorn his body accordingly- there was not much to be made of an old, bulky Man O’War like him with only a fresh coat of paint to cover the rot and decay of decades on the high seas, but he had the desire to present himself most advantageously to Margaret, and he was certain she would notice and approve.

On that occasion, a day less than a week later well-spent relieving his purse of coin for items of Vanity and a few necessities he wished to procure personally rather than having someone get them for him, he decided to visit a house in a respectable area of town, on — Street, where spaciously enow liv’d his friend’s widow and their only child, his godson, who had recently taken ill and was, according to his mother’s letters, not quite well again.

Naturally he worried for the lad, and wished to see him in person, to ascertain himself of the improvement of his Condition of which a few days prior Mrs Simcoe, a most loving Mother and Nurse, had informed him.

Somewhat short of breath, he scaled the staircase to Katherine Simcoe’s parlour, where she would receive him.

Imeditatly as he entered, a woman of middling height and age rose from an armchair, smiling cordially at him; Samuel noted with gladness that the friendship he had had for her husband had been passed on to his wife.

The usual pleasantries were exchang’d, the weather commented on, and his journey enquired after. Dutifully, he replied as was expected, and jested liberally, happy to see the usually rather quiet woman’s face lighten with a smile- the Lord knew she was in dire need of it.

With her sickly son to care for, Katherine’s happiness, which had so often been impaired by the sudden and brutal interventions of Fate, was small, and he felt sorry for her with all his heart, realizing that if he worried for his godson already, her anxiousness must be immeasurable.  

“How is he, Katherine?”, he ask’d the woman whom he would always address politely as Mrs Simcoe in front of the boy.

“Better, I hope”, she tried to say chearfuly enow, yet her worrisome mien betray’d her true Feelings. She worried for him greatly, the only son the Lord and unfavourable circumstances had left her, the only thing she had left of his dear late friend, her husband.

Although long having discarded the widow’s black bombazine, everything of Katherine gave away her bereft state; her measured gait and slightly stopped posture, as if still required to bow her head to conceal mournful tears and her quietness, so quiet in fact the rustling of her petticoats was louder than her step, communicated to everyone who saw her that she had in this life suffered Great Tragedy, and likely never recovered from it, nor ever would.

Who would, to lose three babes and a husband- he shuddered, not outwardly with his body, but with his soul. Pawlett and John had died young, as happened too often; children born too frail for this world, or gripp’d by the suffocating claws of a merciless disease went to Heaven before their time, and Death pluck’d from the cradles of rich and poor indiscriminately. He seemed to have taken a liking to Katherine’s sons however, who, after having lost two young, young Master Percy was drowned five years ago at only ten years of age in a terrible accident by the riverside.

Now Katherine was worried for Graves, too, whom he presumed, hoped, to have more resilience and Health in him than the older brothers he had never known.

When they had shared enow talk and news over refreshments, Katherine led him to the small library, made up of the late Captain’s volumes mostly, where she said his godson presently dwelt.

The boy, wrapp’d warmly in his banyan and a blanket his mother had insisted upon sat propped up by an impressive number of cushions on a daybed near the fireplace;  the discarded frame, needle, scissors and assorted threads on a small table nearby indicated the mother dared not leave her son a moment without her watchful gaze- or had done before his arrival.

“Godfather”, he was greeted by the somewhat hoarse voice of the rather pallid seventeen-year-old. Minding his good manners, the lad, pleasantly surpriz’d, attempted to rise to greet his elder properly, but Samuel insisted he ought not trouble himself.

“Enough of that, enough of that. I was merely hoping to see you were better.”

“I am”, young Graves assured him and gave him a smile that died prematurely on his lips when it was ended by a cough.

Katherine was right to worry for his health, he thought, and instantly wondered how the weakest had survived when his brothers and father had perished.

“But what of you”, the question was return’d. “Are you well, Admiral?”

“Yes”, he nodded, which was not a true lie- in fact, thinking of meeting Margaret soon caused a healthy hue of red to rise in his face.

John Graves mustered him intently, a crease forming between his wakeful and ever-attentive eyes. Blasted be his Quickness of mind and Unparallelled Attentiveness.

“You indeed look most content- say, is there any particular reason for your present good humour?”

The boy was to be understood- sickly in bed or made to sit somewhere and rest, there was little talk, little of anything for him to indulge in that usually form’d the past-time of youths his age; his present condition and faiblesse prevented him from almost everything except for reading and quiet conversations.

His natural curiosity was only spurn’d by the boredom which seem’d to be the true Evil afflicting him, not whatever made him cough violently and paled his skin.

Katherine had left them to themselves, sensing her Son might be in want of male company for a change, and for some reason, this knowledge caused him to feel more at ease and speak more freely.

After having held his immeasurable joy in for so long, he could no longer; and when he looked him in the eyes and found them to be the mirror image of his father’s, his late dear friend John, he felt no remorse nor caution to speak of these delicate matters to a lad of less than twenty before telling anybody else.

“I have of late entertain’d a rather intriguing exchange with a Miss Spinckes, an accomplished lady”, he started, and imediatly saw a smile rise on Young Graves’ face.

“A woman?”, John Graves proceeded to ask with forcibly restrained disbelief in his voice, reading more into what he had said —and to his vexation the right things— than his wording had express’d.

He decided not to confront him over the injury the disbelief in his voice caused him for it implied that he thought a man of his age could not be lov’d, or love among other things and instead forced himself to nod.

“Is she pretty?”, his godson continued to interrogate him and imediatly the boy’s eyes lit up with the sort of mischievously misguided fire that burns in all boys that age, whose thoughts are govern’d by general loud- and lewdness, perverse phantasies, self-pollution and the next raucous adventure they may find.

“Yes”, he replied without hesitation, causing John Graves to look at him mildly amazed at first, then perfectly content.

“My congratulations”, the boy started to word-by-word repeat a phrase he had been taught, but he was quicker, “-not yet.”

“Oh.”

Apparently he had his godson’s undivided attention now, for he laid down his book in his lap with the spine pointing towards the ceiling to mark the page he was currently reading.

“You are keen on remarrying, I take it?”, he tried to say in a voice that was supposed to sound more grown than he was.

“No”, he said and added, “on her”, and instantly wondered why he was telling this to a boy who had seen nothing of the world, who had been farthest from home when he had been at Eton.

The boy wanted to smile, but the attempt looked more melancholy than happy. His affectations of pretending to be a man versed in the ways of the world were gone, and for a moment, his voice reverted to the touchingly delicate and innocent tone of the seven-year-old, who had wanted to know of him if his Papa had gone to heaven.

Glancing to the door, to make certain his mother was not in earshot, he ask’d, his voice low: “do you think a new husband would make Mother happy, too?”

He gave it an instant’s thought before he answered his godson: “No. I do not think remarriage mends the happiness of all people after the loss of a spouse; marriage is not necessarily a matter of love, and  even with the best intentions, not all love is meant to be unified by marriage.”

His godson gave him a look that communicated the lad had not understood, and he decided to keep these truths and matters that must have been very confusing to a boy barely grown into a man to himself, letting Young Graves inhabit the phantasy-scenery of his Dreams, where he, accoutr’d with sword and armour, hunted after a Lady riding a unicorn or some such.

The tender paternal love and care he felt for the boy caused him to wish John Graves Simcoe would one day find himself in the company of a lady suited to his Notions, one who might reciprocate them, from which would grow the delicate Sapling of first Love, then the solid oak of continu’d happiness that would allow for marriage. It would not hurt if that gentle Dame would have a dowry, he added to his thoughts, for Katherine would not leave him much upon her death.

Soon, he bade goodbye to mother and son, but not before making Young Graves swear upon his honour that he would divulge nothing. The lad obliged and wish’d him well in his endeavour, pressing his hand firmly with the strength of one on his path to recuperation.

Hope was the theme of this spring, mending with its balmy air the much attack’d lungs of his godson, and his heart with the sun-like vision of Margaret Spinckes, whom he would come to see very soon.

 

Bath, mid-April 1769.

The journey had been horrid; the coach was as dirty as the roads, and once they would almost have got stuck in the mire a week’s worth of rain had produced, had not the coachman whipp’d his horses so frightfully that the animals, out of fear of their master summoned near-supernatural strength and managed to pull it out.

Through doors and windows, wind and mud permeated, causing an unpleasant cold to creep into his bones wherever he had gotten wet, rendering reading or any other past-time save for bathing for a change not in cold mud, but one’s own Miserableness impossible.

Positively shaken up, dirty and motion-sick to such a degree that made him look like a landsman freshly steppt aboard a ship when he see-sawed past the landlady whom he only briefly and very curtly announced his arrival to, he went straight for the bed, where he, reaching beneath it, found the chamber-pot right away, the which he kept by his side for the remainder of the evening in fear of any embarrassing consequences of his horrendous journey.

The following morning, he wrote to Margaret to the address she had inhabited when last at Bath, finding like him she had reclaimed her habitual lodgings when the letter was indeed delivered and by means of a young boy, an answer was delivered right away- she would come to see him the following afternoon, for earlier, she had been claim’d by a friend.

The morning was spent in preparation of her arrival; dress’d in a new suit and a wig freshly curled for the occasion. When she came, he could say of himself with Confidence, that he had done what he could to make himself a pleasant sight for her.

Her heart must have raced as fast as his, for a moment long, they just stood, somewhat mortifyingly petrified not knowing how to greet another, before Margaret sighed and motioned him to draw closer-

They kiss’d, and it was a moment he swore he would all his life remember fondly and in the most vivid colours.

Her mouth, so pleasantly shap’d as if made to complement his own, made him compare himself to an aimless wanderer Lost in the Desert of Arabia, that has perchance steppt into an Oasis. Enlivened by her presence and her desire, he press’d her against his own form and dared, as he did so, to make a bold advance and ran a hand through her hair, for he desired to feel the silken tresses under his fingers.

“It is good to see you”, she manag’d to say, smiling against his lips before continuing on in this sweet and idle past-time, a sentiment he could only affirm was reciprocated.

Wherever their impassion’d Kiss could have ended, it did not. No sheets suffered the maltreatment two human bodies enwrapped in another usually inflicted upon them, no fichu was torn off in haste, nor his wig carelessly discarded on the floor.

Instead, uncertain as to how they had come to be there, he found himself sitting beside her on the sopha, their hands being the only parts of their bodies that touched.

“Your cravat”, Margaret observ’d disapprovingly and bound it anew.

“Your bonnet”, he answered and righted the delicate thing made of the whitest linen and starch’d so white it almost appeared to glew in the rosy light of a spring afternoon.

There was coffee and conversation afterwards, a rather informal affair and by the time Margaret declared she had to leave, lest she wanted to be the talk of the ton, he was certain. It was a swift manoeuvre, perhaps a little rushed, but he would not hold it in any longer.

He had had time enow to consider it, and arriv’d always at the same conclusion, that he lov’d Miss Spinckes.

Curious, how the heart in situations of such great Importance grows faint; the question went unask’d for the intirety of Margaret’s visit, but when she was about to leave, some last reserve of Bravery stored somewhere in the farthest corner of his Soul, was brought forth and he manag’d to rise from his seat beside her and kneel, as it was done.

“I have thought long and thoroughly about it, and I ask of you nothing but an honest answer, be it yes or no; Margaret, will you be my wife?”

As he directed his hopeful Eyes upwards, no scene of surpriz’d joy awaited him: Margaret, stone-fac’d, sat before him as if cornered on the sopha, petrified not unlike (o Irony!) the wife of Lot. A woman ought not look like that when this particular question is posed to her, she ought to be joyous to be united with the man she lov’d, and any other reaction bore testimony to the failure of the venture. As the silence, heavy like a feather cushion almost choak’d him with horrid, baleful prophesies of her ungiven yet obvious reply, he did not need or even desire her to speak, altho’ the little thread of shredded hope inside him crying for him to wait for her answer with unwavering Confidence. But he was a man of rational thought, and therefore knew her answer already.

It had all been a dream, a short breath of the delightfully fresh spring air. He should never have supposed she would like him so much she would wish to suffer his presence forever- especially when asked so quickly. No, this was where their ways would part; tho' there was love, on his part for certain, it was evidently not the sort destined for marriage. He had rushed it, and should never even have dared to hope for a woman like Margaret to debase herself to him, her inferior by birth, fortune, looks and Family?

“My apologies, Miss Spinckes”, he manag’d to mumble as he rose to his feet again, painfully aware of her silence and the Shock on her face. “I will leave you now.”

What else could he say? He did not know, nor was there anything else he wanted to say to her. All was said between them, it appeared, and would only cause them both dreadful embarrassment.

Half-way through the door, he, to his surprize, heard her get to his feet and rush after him: he turn’d instinctively, expecting her to be angry with him for his forwardness.

But Samuel was mistaken: her mien was transform’d, no more shock was to be found in it, but anxiousness, and the hand that came to rest on his arm seem’d to convey her wish for him to stay.

Once she had his attention, she slippt both her Hands in his, and held them firmly. Totally immobiliz’d without any possibility to escape save to use force, he was pinn’d in place, unable to move and to some degree, unwilling to do so, for she was holding his hands.

“Mr Graves, I cannot give you my answer at present and I am terribly sorry for it. I must bid for an extension of a week, then you shall hear my answer- and then I shall require one of you. You must trust me when I tell you that next week at this very hour, I will visit you in your lodgings again and you will understand everything. I cannot say more at present, forgive me.”

The look she gave him was Sad, and altho’ he did not know what to do or say or feel, his fondness for her trumped Everything; clearly, she was in distress of some sort- perhaps it had to do with the Relations she so scarcely spoke about, save for her niece; perhaps she felt shame because a ne’er-do-well brother had squandered her dowry at the Faro table? Or had she at home a terrible dragon of a mother, who had found out and disapproved of him?

An endless slew of Possibilities attack’d his brain, and made him restless and afeard he would never see her again despite her vow to return the next week.

“Now I must go for I must pack, and return to Northamptonshire.”

Margaret’s eyes spoke of true ruefulness when she let go of him- yet not without pressing his hands very firmly and then cupping his cheeks in her hands, thus signalling him to bow down somewhat, so she could kiss his forehead.

“Travel Safe, Margaret.”

“I am not easily afraid, not of vagrants or bad roads”, she tried to jest, but it was of no use.

Her lips lingered on his skin for a moment of most perfect Closeness, in which they were timelessly united for the duration of said brief instant. He wished they could have remained in this Pose, statue-like forever, but knew it could not be, for she was adamant her departure was necessary for some reason he would hopefully learn in eight days’ time.

“Here”, he heard himself say before he realiz’d what he had done or said, and held out a button ripp’d from his coat to her. It was grey, and round, not very remarkable, certainly not a a lover’s token, but the only thing he could think of in the haste the moment called for.

“So you forget me not.”

“How could I?”, she replied, an enigmatic upwards twist of the corners of her mouth briefly illumining her face.

Reverently, as if handling the relic of a Saint, he placed it in her palm, the true object of his veneration, and closed her fingers around it.

Margaret smiled feebly at him, doubtlessly intending to comment on him having rippt a button off his coat, but to his surprize said not a thing.

“Samuel watched her go; his heart was heavy as stone.

He rested ill that night, and the following ones also, and found himself quite lacking Appetite. Instead, he made himself the talk of town for taking long walks, alone, to try and put his mind to other things, but it was of no use, for  however far his feet wandered, his mind wandered farther, to Miss Spinckes, Margaret, and made him aware of an Emptiness in his heart of which she was the causer. Nothing, he was certain, she could present to him could ever change his mind- and yet, he waited anxiously for her return, not knowing what to expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before I start with the notes on this chapter, let me thank the kind and gracious MimiDubois_1620 for her support of this little story and tweeting a shout out- it is much appreciated. I can only recommend her work, "A Million Dreams" to you! If you haven't already read it!
> 
> Meet The Simcoes:  
> Samuel’s godson John Graves Simcoe was born the third of four children to his parents John (a captain in the Navy, where he befriended Samuel) and Katherine Stamford, who were married in Bath Abbey on 8 August 1747.  
> It’s not clear if it was John Simcoe who introduced Samuel Graves and Elizabeth Sedgwick- however, he and Elizabeth came from the same town and given he and Samuel were close friends, it doesn’t seem improbable the two were introduced by their common acquaintance. By the way, I only learned very recently the Sedgwick-Graves’ were married in 1750. 
> 
> Prior to John Graves, the Simcoes had Pawlett William (bap. 28 April 1750, d. 29 May 1750) and John (d. 1751), who died in infancy.  
> In 1752, John Graves followed as their first and ultimately only surviving child- his brother Percy, two years his junior, drowned aged 10 in a tragic accident in the river Exe in 1764.  
> John Graves never was quite healthy- he suffered from crippling migraines and is retrospectively suspected to have been asthmatic, later battled gout and various other afflictions. Some biographies claim he was gravely ill in the year after he left Oxford. Knitting life and legend together, John is indeed a little under the weather when we meet him in this story.  
> In 1759, John Simcoe died aboard his ship HMS Pembroke of pneumonia, leaving a widow and two sons aged 7 and 5. Katherine decided to move to Exeter, where she had friends and/or family- perhaps the fact that Exeter is not far from the Graves’ residence of Hembury Fort House might have played a part in her decision, too. Katherine died in Exeter in 1776 while her son was on campaign fighting in the Rebels in the Colonies after a long illness; friends later assured him in letters that his mother’s death had been merciful, because she had suffered a great deal. Reading letters exchanged between mother and son, it appears the two were very close, a fact corroborated by John Graves’ children, who recalled their father speaking very often and very fondly about the grandmother (and grandfather) they had never known.  
> On his commemorative monument (he was buried at sea, so there is no grave), John Simcoe was described as “an indulgent husband, a tender parent and sincere friend; generous, humane and benevolent to all; so that his loss to the public, as well as to his friends, cannot be too much regretted.” Katherine, the erector of the monument, is described in the same text as his “disconsolate wife”, which may imply a close and cordial relationship between the Simcoes- something hinted at in the story.  
> I have deliberately left the description of young John Graves vague. If you’re a TURN fan and want to imagine him as a handsome youth with ginger curls, piercing blue eyes and a roman profile, you can- if you’re reading this as an original story about historical characters, you might imagine him closer to the man himself with wavy brown hair, brown eyes, a stubby nose and two moles hiding in his right eyebrow. Both is great! For the TURN fans, I’ve obviously ignored the weird backstory the writers made up for Simcoe and reverted to history here- no “Black Hole of Calcutta”.  
> Depending on where you look, Katherine’s name is spelt differently- I went with “Katherine” as it’s how her son spelt her name, which he proceeded to give to one of his daughters.


	10. Margaret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today:
> 
> -knitting-needle vs. man-spreading  
> -18th century custody arrangements being violated  
> -and the important question: Does Mr Graves like chickens?

It took her two days to travel to Northamptonshire, which were spent in utmost displeasure and discomfort, and thoughts of the proposal.

Resting in a bed in a bad coaching-inn for which she had paid intirely too much to have the privilege of a solitary room and somewhere to sleep for her maid, too, she found it hard to find any rest.

In the adjoining room it was evident that the young Lieutenant who had sat in the taproom on the time of her arrival, had found very accommodating company in one of the indecently-dressed girls Margaret had noticed wandering about the place. Quite evidently, the headboard of his bed was stood against the wall his room shared with hers, for she could hear it crash into the wall repeatedly in short intervals that left her no doubt as to what their activities where.

Wishing they would play chess instead, she rolled around to find a half-pleasing position to sleep in, ideally one that would also drown out the noise from her neighbours, who were quite loud. If only she were a man, Margaret mused, she would go over there with her pistol cocked and ensure her message was understood clearly. Perhaps she would also make a derogatory comment concerning the male’s unimpressive Machine (“Much Ado About No-Thing, isn’t it?”) before leaving, to ensure a most unsatisfactory outcome for both parties in retaliation for their depriving her of some much-needed rest.

At long last, she did fall asleep and rose again after a short night that led from the uncomfortable bed directly to an equally unpleasant carriage.

While suffering the vile discomfort of at best mediocre roads on her way returning home to Northamptonshire in the much too cold morning air that manag’d to creep in at the foot of the door, Margaret, press'd between persons not as cleanly as she, found herself in a state of perfect misery that was only in part related to her unpleasant journey, and had its main root in the reason of her travels.

Never in her life had it been her intention to ever let it come so far as it had done now; never had it been her intention to indeed inspire a proposal, at that one so sincere as that of Mr Graves, who had knelt before her in earnest and not only asked, but begged her to accept him.

Men were weak creatures when measur'd by the ease with which the fair face or ample assets of a lady could drive them into states of thoughtless recklessness in which they were wont to say many stupid things and make many grand promises that would be forgotten soon after, once the fog shrouding their mind would lift, and the fair face suddenly appear to them considerably less so.

Graves had succumbed to her Charms, and most curiously, the ones she had not shewn to him: in the beginning she had been rather cold and rude to him, and later come to regret it. Her behaviour, she reasoned, and her good character had been saved by the Fact that the Rear-Admiral had shewn her equally unfavourable aspects of his person, which she had only repaid in kind.

But all things considered, he was a kind man, a gentleman, one whom she had come to love well, better than most persons,be they male or female, in fact. In the short while they had spent together, an attachment had form'd, one that was mutual in all regards, and strong also; so strong that Mr Graves had ask'd her to finalise it with the strongest thing of all, the marital bond.

It had not been in her power to answer him in the positive then, much as she would have liked to; for tho' she had long since laid aside her Opinions upon the matter of marriage, the which she had kept since the later years of her girlhood, it did not lie within her power to say the words poor Mr Graves had been waiting to hear in what she could only imagine must have been an Agonizing silence, which had led into a no less agonizing answer.

She had not said no, and not yes, but begged him instead to meet her again the following week, and thus prolonged his uncertainty. Given the soft gentleness of his disposition, Margaret reasoned, her answer must have affected him deeply, and she had caused him suffering; however, he would come to understand her very soon, and Marriage would affect them both in several ways. Such a thing had to be considered with great care, not rushed, or else one might have cause for regret later.

On her part, she had made an uneasy peace with the fact that her money would by the laws of marriage pass into his possession; she had resented this all her life, and it had one of the reasons for her to never pursue any attachment to a man that was anything but a fond platonic sentiment; Samuel Graves however had won her heart, conquered it, and it was her desire to spend the latter half of her life with him. If it should ever come so far as he hoped, and she hoped, too, they would have to speak about that.

Naturally, her Considerations on the subject had not come easy, but she had carried them around in her head ever since she had started to think on their acquaintance, and how to further it, if at all. This cross-examination of herself, her conscience and heart, had made it very clear to her that she found great happiness in her time spent with Samuel Graves, even tho' certain aspects of his person could be most infuriating at times, too. For that Happiness, she was prepar'd to give up her old ways, and find new ones, paths broad enow to accomodate two persons walking them together, not just a solitary wanderer.

As the coach rattl'd on and Margaret found herself increasingly presst against a gentleman whose body was not of the dimensions to warrant the space he was claiming by sitting with his legs dispread at an almost lewd angle that Margaret, had they not sat in a coach would on any other occassion have interpreted as an unmistakeable invitation to prostitutes to attend to him. This unwelcome development caused her mind to rest a while in the sense that for a few instants at least, it was not concerning itself with Rear-Admiral Samuel Graves.

Christian charity, Margaret mused, this man knew none- for evidently, he was not willing to share what little space they had and claimed it all for himself. Either his educatuon had be much neglected in terms of religious instruction and the parental regulation of a child's Conduct, for which one almost had to pity him, or he was just a mean, vile creature itnent on being comfortable in the coach when no-one else was.

Opposite her, her maidservant, who had watched their vile travelling companion, made a sour face meaning to convey compassion and commiseration. Contrary to the gentleman, the young girl with a kitten in a basket sitting on her thighs next to her seemed to be quite pleasant; clean enow, keeping her legs together (as any woman should in any situation) and keeping her little charge so comfortable it was asleep for most of the time.

Margaret gave a benevolent nod to acknowledge her maid's concern when quite unexpectedly, an Idea form'd in her head: "give me my knitting", she demanded a little louder than was necessary, and waited with her arm outstreched until her maid had manag'd to reach for the small bag tuck'd between her lower legs and the seat, where they had stor'd a few items to pass the time.

A feeling of triumph rose to her chest when Margaret receiv'd the half-finished arm warmers she had been making, knowing she had won. All she had to do was to wait for an opportune moment, and knit a few rows. Knowing she appear'd very much harmless, a woman of a certain age engrossed in her knitting, he would not expect an attack.

When a sudden, quite impressive bump in the road shook the company inside the coach up, her moment had come: pretending she had lost her balance to some degree she allowed the shock of the motion to throw her left and right, seemingly helpless in her fall: trying to steardy herself, the hand in which she held the needle was most inadvertently us'd to support her against the (now conveniently close) thigh of the detestable gentleman, and the needle aim'd to prick him in the thigh close to his most manly parts where the skin was tender and sensitive.

Her actions had the desired Effect: he gave a pain'd cry, and by a subconscious decision of his body in direct reaction to experiencing pain in an area so close to the part he quite possibly prided himself most with, his legs snapped shut like a pair of scissors.

"My deepest apologies, sir", Margaret, whose own legs quickly widened their stance a bit as she spoke sang sweetly, playing her part as the amiable woman of a certain age, "has it hurt much?"

"Barely a prick, madam," he manag'd through gritted teeth, evidently in greater pain than he was willing to give away.

"My good Sir, I am much relieved. I could never have forgiven myself had you come to any harm."

Contented, she endur'd the rest of her journey, even when the man next to her left and was at the same stop replac'd by a lady in the latter half of her sixties, savouring her great Triumph.

Soon enough however, her thoughts turn’d to the reason for her journey again and the feeling of victory abated to be replaced by a distinct sense of Dread. How she would explain it all to her mother and Elizabeth, she did not know. Jemima Spinckes was a woman whose thoughts on female independance were liberal enow for one of her age, after all, she had permitted Margaret never to marry when she had voiced that wish in the second decade of her life, but the circumstances of her visit home to explain her change of heart could hardly be ignored- never had she mentioned Samuel Graves to any of her family before, not even in passing in a letter, never before had she wish'd to be married, no, never.

Her thoughts whirling wildly, the remainder of her day-long journey that caused her by fortunate circumstances to arrive at home seated atop the cart belonging to a neighbour, whose man, a good fellow, had seen her dismount the post-coach and offered to take her to Aldwinckle; his master would surely wish him to extend this simple act of Kindness to so distinguish’d a Neighbour as Miss Spinckes.

This last bit of her journey was not very pleasant; the thing was not only moving ahead on the road, but creaking and moving in itself, and taking every stone in the road badly; at least she was luckier than her maid, who was sat with the firewood the man was transporting in the back.

The evening light glewed splendidly in hues of red and purple when Margaret arriv’d; in some of the Windows, the warm sheen of light indicated the presence of People, others lay in the darkness.

To her luck it was not too late in the evening yet, and everyone, including her mother and perhaps little Elizabeth, were up still.

It would be quite a surprise for her to see her Aunt, Margaret resolved, and knowing Elizabeth, she would be quite Happy, and beg her to tell tales from Bath; her mother would be more reserved in her shewing surprize, and ask questions.

She did not tarry long, and was by the door quickly, where she knocked and was imediatly let in by a maid whose face spoke of the surprize she was yet to encounter in her Mother and Niece.

“Mrs Spinckes, Miss Spinckes has arrived”, she was announced to her mother, whose audible huff made it clear she was in a state of Disbelief when the maid told her her daughter had return’d.

“Mother”, she greeted the older woman reverently and kiss’d the cheek, as children are apt to do, which her mother offered.

“Are you not at Bath?”

“As you see, indeed I am not”, Margaret negated and seated herself in the chair closest to the fireside, uncaring about the damage soot or a spark might do to her already dirty and crumpled travelling-attire. The warmth felt most agreeable to her chilled bones, that were weary from the road, and upon her mother’s insistence, she could be persuaded to have some Sherry, to warm her from within also.

Dutifully, Margaret took a sip of the glass the servant offered her and took her time swallowing, for altho’ she did not like the taste much, it bought her time to think on what to say to her mother, to explain what she had in mind.

“How is Elizabeth?”, she ask’d before her mother could pose a question of her own and which would obtain her important information.

“Well”, her mother replied simply. “She is to travel to Whitchurch by Saturday, and is quite happy on the prospect of seeing her Aunts.”

“She cannot go”, Margaret, who understood herself to be intitled to Precedence over her niece’s paternal aunts, ruled dismissively. “She must come with me, the Gwillims will understand.”

“I think not, they have the same right as you to see their niece”, her mother countered and shook her head in frustration. “Margaret, what is this all? Why have you come home without notice? And what has it to do with Elizabeth?”

Her mother’s voice sounded fearful and trembled like an autumn leaf in the wind. This Aspect however was lost to Margaret, who had taken offence at the Notion that her Cousins, the two Misses Gwillim, should have the same rights regarding the child, as she.

“Elizabeth was _my_ sister, and I am the child’s god _mother_ ”, Margaret, aggrieved, explained. In her opinion, a child was more closely Attach’d to the mother, as it had grewn within her for three quarters of a year, whereas the father, except for the initial act of Creating a new life, was not involved at all.

Thomas had not even known of his daughter’s existence; he had died before Elizabeth had even been certain she was pregnant. Twelve years of childless marriage, and when finally, they had accomplish’d what would have compleated their Happiness, Thomas had died on campaign, a month after he returned to his regiment in Germany.

He hadn’t even known of Little Elizabeth, and her sister had told her first of all people in the world, and had even kept it secret for a while when she had gone to visit the Gwillims, to not give them hope so soon after the death of their son, the second they lost, so soon after the last- their family, so terribly affected by Death and Hardship, ought not to suffer another Melancholy event when Hopes of a child, a Little Image of Thomas, might be Turnt to Dust if she miscarried.

When it was quite certain that the child was well settled in her womb, she did tell them at last. The old people had been very happy to know their son was not gone forever from them and expected the birth with as much anticipation as Margaret and her mother had.

Alas, God had decided to dispense equal treatment on the Gwillim and Spinckes families, and had taken Elizabeth to be reunited with her husband, but left them the Poor little Babe.

They were both gone now, too, the Gwillims, and Margaret doubted Elizabeth, still very little when they died, had any real memory of them which strengthened her Belief that the child ought to remain with her and the remaining grandparent as the most Senior relative.

“Thomas was _their_ brother, and she is _their_ niece, too”, her mother rebuffed in the same blunt manner in which Margaret had spoken to her. “You must practice respect- they are your cousins, and you must provide a worthy example for Elizabeth, who ought to grow up knowing the Importance of Family, and above all, Civility.”

Feeling it was not right that a woman of more than Forty should have to subject herself to maternal scoldings, Margaret frowned.

“It cannot be any other way at present. They can have her later, when we have returned from Bath.”

“But why should Elizabeth go to Bath with you, and when you just came from there at that?”, her mother ask’d, not understanding the Why or Wherefore.

This was the moment she had dreaded; the moment in which she would have to confess everything (though she would keep that reckless night of Passion in Graves’ bedroom to herself).

“Because she must become acquainted with someone. I wish it so.”

Mrs Spinckes was one of the few persons who did not accept Margaret’s word as law, and could not be intimidated by her commanding air; too long and too well did she know her daughter for that strategy to bear fruit.

“What you _wish_ and what must or will be done are two different matters”, said Mrs Spinckes in hopes of instilling some Sense in her daughter, who, with her arms crossed in the pose of a defiant Child, glared back at her mother.

“Elizabeth _must_ go. Without her- without her coming, I shall be forever denied happiness.”

Her words were somewhat dramatized, her speech brought forth in a desperate tone that sounded more despondent than it should have- but it helped, and the trick had the desired effect; Mrs Spinckes’ eyebrows met in the middle of her wrinkled face and concern spoke from her eyes to Margaret when she begged her to explain.

“I have met someone at Bath. He proposed to me and I am inclined to accept, but shall only do so once he and Elizabeth, who I intend to care for still, have been successfully acquainted. If they dislike another, I cannot marry him.”

“Margaret-“, her mother began, her mouth agape with disbelief- “ _you_ -“

“Yes, mother. He loves me well, and I return that Sentiment. It was never my inclination to do so, but Fate has interven’d to that effect and since the time has come that I must no longer live expecting to have a child, I think-“

Her mother’s hand reached across to her, finding hers resting on her thigh, made into a strong fist that gripp’d at her petticoats.

“It has been months”, she answered the question her mother did not need to ask aloud, “I will not die as Elizabeth did if I marry.”

In the old woman’s eyes Tears of Relief to be certain in the knowledge that at least one of her children would remain with her in old age, and Sadness for grandchildren, heirs to the family that would never be born, mixed, creating a strange effect; Margaret could for the first time in her life not ascertain from her mother’s features the Frame of Mind.

“But you never-“ her mother began, and selected her words carefully, knowing her daughter’s temper that no-one had ever manag’d to bridle was as easily ignited as a powder keg, “you never express’d the wish to marry; you were content to remain a Spinster, and for reasons, I recalled, not related to the heart.”

“It is true. I never wish’d to marry for a set of reasons that is well-known to you; all these things aside, never before did I meet one who pleased me well enow to even consider abandoning the principles I have believed in, and which I do not rue believing in for one moment.”

Her mother smiled, to Margaret’s surprize, amused.

“There were young men who wish’d to court you, droves of them-“

“Not _droves_ ”, Margaret corrected her mother’s inordinate exaggeration, “but enow for me to refuse.”

“And none of them pleas’d you? There were handsome men, rich men, noble-men all among them; and none pleas’d you in his mien, or his demeanour, or disposition or any other aspect well enow to marry him?”

“I liked none”, Margaret gave her honest reply, “a fair face means nothing; too often it is a façade for Vice, a good heart doth not guarantee Good Sense and too often the perpetually high-spirited man reveals himself to be a compleat fool, whose only reason for Happiness is the fact that his mind is too simple to understand and concern itself with the evils and wrongs of this world.”

“My Margaret”, the old woman chuckled, tho’ not in an insulting fashion; to Margaret’s own surprize, it caused the warm sensation of filial love to spread through her travel-weary body and manag’d to bring her lips to smile over her mother’s words, the which she had heard uttered in this fashion more than once before.

“It was kind of Father and you, Mother, to leave it for Elizabeth and me to decide upon our futures- too many a woman is forced to live with a horrible man, selected by the considerations of her Family, which seldom are in the bride’s interest.”

“You know I share your belief. And you know our good friend Mrs Montagu said that she wish’d she had half your principles, and half your bravery to speak them.”

“And I believe Mrs Montagu also wish’d she’d had a mother like you, who would not have forc’d a husband upon her at a young age.”

For a moment, Mother and Daughter sat quietly together without a word being said; when some time had pass’d it was her mother who broke the silence:

“Tell me about him.”

“His name is Samuel Graves”, Margaret began, “he is a rear-admiral in the navy, of Irish parentage, as his accent, which he thinks he can disguise but fails miserably at it, reveals. He has a house in Devonshire and was captain of the _Duke_ at Quiberon.”

“That is not what I meant.”

Her mother’s hand once again enwrapp’d her own, holding it tight- and Margaret understood.

“He is a kind man, and has a good heart. He loves me. He has his defects, infuriating ones at that, but few people, I believe, are intirely free of them, wherefore a certain Number must be tolerated with grace in every character.”

“I suppose the Gwillims can wait another week to see Elizabeth- I shall write to them, they will understand.”

 

 

That night, Margaret fell asleep rather swiftly, still weary from her travels and thankful for the conversation she had had with her mother. Her room had been hastily made up for use, and it was still a little cold as it had not been heated over the time she had not been home, but that was of no matter to her.

With her eyes half-closed, Margaret spent her remaining time awake that day thinking of Samuel- and Elizabeth, whom she would see in the morning.

 

 

“ _Aunt!_ ” an excited bell-chime of a voice exclaimed as a little girl in a white dress with a sash of red dash’d down the hallway in a most undignified manner and thrust herself at Margaret, who was already seated in her chair, breakfasting with her mother.

“Elizabeth Posthuma Gwillim”, her grandmamma scolded lightly, “you know you must not run in the house. A lady never runs.”

An apology was uttered by the child, who knew neither her grandmamma nor her aunt ever meant her ill when educating her, and thus seated herself quietly beside her aunt to breakfast.

Her tiny, pointed face that was in some ways too sharp for her age could barely contain the questions she would like to ask, but having been reminded of her being a young lady, not an impertinent peasant-girl, Elizabeth swallowed them with her bread and jam and waited patiently for the adults to address her, which Margaret did almost imediatly:

“How would you like going to Bath, Elizabeth?”

The child’s eyes glewed with excitement.

“I should be very happy, Aunt”, she said politely in a tone that was agreeable and mellow; it was obvious to Margaret however that Elizabeth was in a struggle with herself to contain her high spirits.

“That is well, for we shall go to-morrow. We shall leave Miss Smith and Nurse here, and go all by ourselves.”

“All by ourselves?”, the little girl echoed, her eyes wide, without a doubt thinking it a splendid adventure.

“Just the two of us. Betsey can pack your things.”

 

 

The next day, pack’d and ready, they were put on the next post-chaise in Oundle; Elizabeth did not care much for the rattling of the wheels on the road, or the constant draft; wrapp’d up warmly, she sat contently by the window and watched the Landscape fly by, making comments here and there on pretty scenes, which she should like to sketch.

By noon, the little One was growing a little unpleasant, due to being hungry and tired, but could be persuaded to nap a little while, until they would reach the next inn.

That night, Margaret did not have a room to herself; sharing her bed with Elizabeth she did not find space to lie in it- it was most surprizing how much Space so little a body could take up.

Curiously, Elizabeth, who had been raised a Solitary Child, and did not ordinarily demand being petted or stroak’d, or otherwise shewn physical affection as other children did, press her little body close against Margaret’s, who was a little puzzled by’t for the novelty of the moment, but did not think long before laying her arm protectively around the little one.

A while after she had put the candle out (she had thought Elizabeth had long-fallen asleep), a little voice ask’d into the darkness:

“Why are we going to Bath, Aunt?”

“Important Business”, Margaret explained vaguely, uncertain how to tell the child of the real reason for their travels.

“But why-“

“Because-“ Margaret paused, but sensing it was inevitable and vital that Elizabeth should learn of the reason for their voyage, continued: “You are very dear to me, Elizabeth. I have- what would you say, if I was to tell you that you are going to have an uncle soon?”

Elizabeth took her time to think before she gave her answer: “but that cannot be, I have only aunts! And Grandmamma Gwillim always said that my Papa’s brothers are in heaven with him.”

“So they are”, Margaret confirmed, searching under the bed-cloathes for a Little Hand to hold firmly in her own.

It was not something that was often done, just as it was not Elizabeth’s wont to display such a need for affection as she did that night; somehow it seem’d as if between them existed an understanding that something was out of the ordinary without the reason for it being voiced yet.

“While in Bath, I made the acquaintance of a very nice gentleman, Mr Graves. He is very kind and I like him very well-“

“You will be married, Aunt?”, Elizabeth asked into the darkness, her voice thin and trembling a bit with uncertainty.

“I don’t know if I will be”, Margaret replied truthfully and tightened the embrace in which she cradled the child by her side, sensing that Elizabeth, who had huddled even closer to her, needed it.

“I love him well. But- but you are my first and greatest concern. I promised your Mamma that I would take good care of you, and love you as she would have done, had she lived-“

For years, Margaret had not permitted herself to shed tears over her sister’s death, had packed away the mourning-cloathes and decided only to speak well and happily of her sister in front of the child bearing her name, and increasingly, her Face as well.

Elizabeth’s death had almost broken their mother and had never left Margaret, either; she remembered only too vividly how, after first the midwife, then the doctor had advocated for a clergyman to be called, as their art was not enow to save the new mother; Elizabeth had first alone, then with Margaret’s aid held on to her child until the Weakness of her body had so totally exhausted her, that she had kiss’d the babe’s head in a farewell that should never have had to be and ask’d Margaret to take her, and care for her little daughter always.

They had baptized Elizabeth Posthuma Gwillim on the twenty-second, and buried her Mother on the twenty-third.

Throughout all that, she had disallowed herself open displays of Grief, especially in front of her Mother and the Little One, whose survival had been far from guaranteed; now, in the darkness of a room in an acceptable enow coaching-inn, silent Tears roll’d down her Face, in part for Elizabeth, whose loss had deprived her daughter of a mother, her own mother of a daughter and Margaret of a sister and her best friend, and in some way, she cried too because of the Uncertainty that awaited her at Bath with Graves and the younger Elizabeth.

Was she doing the right thing? Was it right to marry even if Graves would not be averse to a six-year-old charge, was it _her_ right to do so? Would she be doing her sister and the promise she had given her on her deathbed an injustice, and the child?

Questions she had not permitted her conscience to ask welled up, ambushing her akin to an Invisible Army that she could not present any resistance to.

“Why are you crying?”, the little one wanted to know, and suddenly, it seemed to Margaret that not she was holding the child’s hand, but that Elizabeth was holding hers, tenderly, firmly, reassuring almost.

“It is nothing”, Margaret manag’d to press through her trembling lips, despite always having taught her niece never to lie.

“You are sad”, came Elizabeth’s reply in a concerned, almost afeard tone that spoke of her Helplessness in the face of experiencing Margaret so. “You mustn’t be sad, Aunt. Crying makes your eyes red, and you must want to be pritty-“ and then, after an instant-long pause, added: “-for Mr Graves.”

Margaret did not know what to think of Elizabeth’s cautious manner with which she had said Samuel’s name, but the overall message made her heart swell with Happiness, and she would almost have laugh’d, for Elizabeth had, unexpectedly, quoted one of her own dictions that she had uttered to Elizabeth when crying over no matter at all as children do, apparently often enow for the child to notice and copy her.

“Say, Elizabeth, will you be kind to Mr Graves for me?”

“Yes”, the child answered dutifully, sounding cautious and not at all entirely comprehending the magnitude of the Meeting ahead of them.

Not that Elizabeth would have a say in Margaret’s final decision, but she would be influenced by the outcome of her acquainting suitor and niece with another.

If Graves should prove averse to having Elizabeth in his home, she would be saddened, hurt perhaps even, but she would learn not to care much anymore for a man who could not accept the child she loved like her own daughter.

If Elizabeth however would dislike Graves, she would find herself in a dilemma of the greatest sort; altho’ she had sworn not to marry him would Elizabeth not like him, she would love him still-

When had she become so hopeless a romantic, Margaret ask’d herself in reply, scolding these damned thoughts.

The day would bring what the day would bring- and no amount of worrying would change that.

By her side, the slow, regular breaths of her niece told Margaret the little girl had fallen asleep- as had her arm, but moving it would wake the child.

Sighing defeatedly, Margaret tried to find a position to sleep in that would not involve moving much and exhausted as she was, found it soon.

In the morning, dressed and ready to travel, she left the inn with Elizabeth on her hand to go forth on their journey to Bath.

Contrary to Margaret, she was well-rested and it seem’d as if their conversation that night was forgotten- or maybe, Elizabeth only pretended so as she, holding on to Margaret’s hand, followed her to the post-chaise.

Once seated within and waiting to continue their journey, Elizabeth, who had watched a few hens belonging to the inn-keeper pecking by the roadside with great interest, turned away from the window to Margaret and made a most unexpected inquiry:

“Does Mr Graves like chickens?”

The ways of a child’s mind would forever remain incomprehensible to an adult, as Margaret had learned from having Elizabeth, and had to think of an answer.

Samuel Graves very obviously liked all kinds of things that tasted well, roast chicken among them as his not inconsiderable belly indicated, but she doubted that was what Elizabeth meant.

“He likes ships”, she thus tried to satisfy the child’s curiosity, “I think you shall have to ask him about the chickens.”

“Perhaps I shall”, Elizabeth answered, now suddenly more absent-mindedly than before and directed her gaze outside again, where a maid armed with a broom now attempted to herd the chickens away from the road.

Altho’ the topic was not spoken of again, Margaret could tell Elizabeth was still thinking a great deal on Graves, and the night at the Inn.

“You know, I love you very well”, she said suddenly to Margaret midway on the last portion of their journey in an unexpected moment, her hands still toying with a doll she had receiv’d on Christmas last from her grandmother.

Endear’d by the pritty child speaking so sweetly, two or three other persons travelling with them smiled at Elizabeth, then nodded in Margaret’s direction to shew their respect and acknowledge the child’s good breeding.

“And I you, my dear child”, Margaret replied and could not suppress the Curiosity to ask what had prompted to tell her now, in this very moment.

“I thought you ought to know” Elizabeth shrugged, and returned to playing with her doll, muttering low conversations between imaginary conversation-partners of Elizabeth and her favourite toy, the porcelain-fac’d Miss Periwinkle.

Lost in her own thoughts, Margaret, judging Elizabeth quiet enow not to disturb any of their fellow passengers in her play, did not pay her any mind, until a shred of the conversation between Elizabeth, here in the role of Miss Gwillim, accomplish’d and well-known _salonnière_ , and her guest caused her to listen in surprize:

“Miss Periwinkle, have you heard of Mr Graves? _–No I have not, Miss Gwillim._ –Then we must make his acquaintance, must we not? _–I will ask in town for you, but I have heard he is a kind man._ –We shall see, we shall see, Miss Periwinkle, if he indeed is, he might be invited to join us, so we can judge his character by ourselves. _–Would you believe it, Miss Gwillim, my horse jumped a fence so high last Thursday, I nearly fell off when crossing it…_ ”

Margaret was not certain if Elizabeth knew she had taken notice of her play, but a warm feeling of Confidence spread in her chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thomas Gwillim’s (c. 1726-1762) siblings:  
> Elizabeth Sophia (c. 1724-1800)*  
> Henrietta Maria (c. 1725-1785)*  
> Richard Elmes (c. 1729-1761) like his brother in the army, died in 1761 in the West Indies  
> Jasper (c. 1731-1743) drowned in the river Wye trying to rescue a friend  
> Anna Jemima (c. 1736-1757) fell ill and died while visiting her relatives at Aldwinkle   
> *the two aunts relevant in this story helping to raise Elizabeth Posthuma, at this point (spring 1769) the only surviving relatives on the Gwillim-side of the family. Elizabeth’s Gwillim-grandparents died in 1766 and 1767 respectively. 
> 
> Elizabeth addressing Margaret as “Aunt” is an interpretation of mine based on letters in which conversations between Margaret and her grandnieces were recorded for Elizabeth in Canada. Elizabeth’s children called Margaret “Aunt”, which to me makes it plausible Elizabeth might have done so as a child, too- her children might even have picked it up from her. 
> 
> Elizabeth Montagu (1718-1800) was a celebrated salonnière and one of the leading figures behind the Blue Stockings Society. At 22, she was married to Edward Montagu, who was fifty at the time. Similarly to Margaret Spinckes, she hadn’t had any interest in entering a marriage of convention or convenience and did not feel romantically drawn to men. Margaret, and subsequently Elizabeth Posthuma, knew Elizabeth Montagu personally- she became the godmother of Elizabeth’s only Canadian-born (and tragically, -died) daughter Katherine (1793-1794). They were loosely related and Margaret, especially at the time when she spent time in London with her older sister, might have attended her salon a couple of times. 
> 
> Little Elizabeth’s mother, Margaret’s sister, married her cousin Lieut. Col. (then Lieutenant) Thomas Gwillim on 14th January 1750. Elizabeth was ca. 27, the groom ca. 24 years old. The couple were married for 12 years when over Thomas’ 1761 Christmas leave, their first and only child was conceived. Before Elizabeth could even tell Thomas of their very personal Christmas miracle, he died on 29th January 1762 while stationed in Germany- the cause of his death has been lost to history. When Elizabeth learned of her husband’s death, she moved in with Thomas’ parents and sisters for a while because she felt it was her duty to console them. Margaret, or so one biography states, was close at her sister’s side throughout the shock of losing her husband, disbanding her London household, coming to terms with the fact that she was a pregnant widow and moving in with the in-laws. For the birth, Elizabeth wanted to be back home with her own mother and sister. At 38, she was uncommonly old to be a first-time mother. Margaret and Elizabeth were very close, so when Elizabeth died shortly after giving birth to her baby daughter, she started becoming very protective of little Elizabeth Posthuma. As her godmother and possibly seeing her as a mini-version of her late sister, Margaret became very protective of Elizabeth, which at times came to the fore in rather unhealthy bouts of jealousy of everyone who was close with Elizabeth.   
> The best example is the man she would come to marry- while accompanying her husband to Boston, Margaret had no problems being kind to and even inviting the young officer over to her place. John even used the same reverential address in letters to her he used for his mother. Back home years later, when he and Elizabeth met at Hembury Fort House and had the audacity to fall in love, she would change her tune to becoming a pretty stereotypical mother-in-law type.  
> Another victim of Margaret’s jealousy was Elizabeth’s best friend Mary Anne, who was afraid of Margaret from the age of around 13 to 30, when she finally started to talk back to the old lady. Mary Anne, a little shier and quieter than Elizabeth, even refused to stay over at the Fort as a guest without Elizabeth because of Margaret being very intimidating.   
> Perhaps some sort of explanation for Margaret’s near-possessive behaviour other than having been inseparable from her older sister can be found in the rather sad fate of Margaret’s siblings and cousins: of the five Spinckes-children, only Margaret and Elizabeth had survived to adulthood, with Margaret being the only one who ultimately outlived their mother. Of her six cousins, Anna Jemima died of an illness while visiting the Spinckes’, Richard and Thomas died while away with the Army in two consecutive years and Jasper drowned at the age of 11 or 12 in an accident trying to save a friend who had fallen into the river Wye.   
> Little Elizabeth Posthuma was thus some sort of ‘miracle baby’ for both families, the only child in her generation and the living legacy of two loved ones.  
> Curiously, perhaps the only person whose good relationship with Elizabeth Margaret accepted unconditionally was Samuel, but more on that in the next chapter...


End file.
